


Untarnished, She Shines with Honour

by kasiapeia



Series: The World Will Little Note, Nor Long Remember [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bathtub Sex, But since when do I write fully canon compliant things, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dominant Arthur Maxson, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied Ingram/Sarah Lyons, Impregnation, Insubordination, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Listen Arthur needs an heir alright?, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, So Much Dirty Talk, Uneasy Allies, if you're just here for the smut all explicit chapters have an [E] in the title, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 145,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14217459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasiapeia/pseuds/kasiapeia
Summary: “I care about them, you know. The people of the Commonwealth,” he says.She meets his eyes, and in that moment, she looks so much like Sarah his heart aches. Her hand finds his own, fingers intertwining. “I know.”- - -The war the Brotherhood fights against the Institute cannot be won alone. Elder Arthur Maxson does not know what to do. Fortunately for him, General Eleanor Ridley of the Minutemen is more than happy to extend a helping hand. Unfortunately, the General looks a little too much like the woman Arthur had once loved.





	1. Chapter One

As unfamiliar as the Commonwealth may be, at least the quiet thrum of the Prydwen’s engines reminds Arthur of home. Provided that Proctor Ingram can keep the airship running, they carry with them a piece of the Capital Wasteland with them. The Prydwen serves a more practical function, of course, providing a heavily armed base of operations, but he knows he could have sufficed with little more than a few vertibirds, and any pre-War building with a roof.

But he had asked for the Prydwen, and though he might be young, no sane Brotherhood soldier would dare to refuse the demands of an Elder with Maxson blood.

He turns to gaze out the window of the observation deck, a cigar held between half-gloved fingers. Wisps of smoke curl and coil as they fade into the air. He knows his parents would disapprove of the habit, but it’s a vice he can’t quite bring himself to break. Knight-Captain Cade had once tried to get him to quit during a routine check-up, reminding him that if an Elder is to die, they should die on the field of battle not to lung disease. Still, the Elder’s responsibilities can distract him from only so many youthful flights of fancies, and this is not one of them.

“Captain,” drawls Maxson, taking a long drag from his cigar as Lancer-Captain Kells steps onto the deck. He does not need to turn around to know that he’s standing there, his hands clasped behind his back as they always are.

“Sir.” There are few people Maxson trusts more than the captain of the Prydwen. Kells has never been anything but loyal, and it had earned him the position of the Elder’s second-in-command. They’d been through a lot together. He had been one of the first to bend the knee to Maxson when he had been appointed as Elder, but he had also recognised that it would take the young Maxson time to adjust to his new role.

He had been sixteen when the position had been thrust upon him.

Sometimes, he remembers her smile, and the way she used to tell him stories. He had been a squire at the time, and she’d been a Sentinel, but they both knew that while she was next in line, he’d take over as elder the instant he came of age. She hadn’t lived to see that day. Sometimes, he remembers that she hadn’t been dead a day before they’d started fighting for his attention, and within a week they had thrust her title upon his shoulders.

Sometimes, he remembers Sarah Lyons, and the contrast of her blue eyes against her blonde hair, and he feels like he can’t breathe. Would she be proud of the man he had become? Or would she have simply laughed, and ruffled his hair like she always had, and remind him that he still has a lot to learn?

His mouth feels as though he’s just swallowed sand. Maxson turns back to look at Kells. “What is it?” It takes an inordinate amount of strength for Maxson to maintain his composure, but even if it had fractured, it would not be the first time Kells had seen him mourn over heir to the Lyons legacy.

“There is someone who would like to speak with you, sir.”

Maxson raises a dark brow. “Someone?” he repeats. “Any specifics beyond that?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. She somehow managed to secure passage up the Prydwen with a group of initiates returning from the airport. They claimed to not have notice her sneak aboard.”

He takes another long drag from his cigar, trying to disguise his uneasiness. How had someone managed to breach his defences? He had trained his men to be more cautious than that. “Tell me why you did not shoot this security threat.”

He does not typically uphold a “shoot first, ask questions later” policy, but the Institute had tried sneaking synths aboard the Prydwen before, and they couldn’t afford to be anything but cautious.

 If Kells notices his growing irritation, he does not comment on it. “She said she was here on Paladin Danse’s instructions. She turned over all her weapons as some sort of ‘demonstration of trust’ as she put it, and demanded that she speak with you. She would not give her name to anyone but you. She insisted that we wait for Paladin Danse before she explained herself to anyone but you, though Proctor Ingram is attempting to get her to talk.”

He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t leave her unsupervised, I hope.”

“Of course not, sir.” Kells is the only one able to make such insolent words seem respectful. Perhaps it is simply because they’ve known each other for so long Maxson simply can’t tell anymore. “She is on the flight deck, with Proctor Ingram, as well as Knight-Captain Larsen and his team, sir.”

“Have you managed to contact Paladin Danse?”

“We have tried radioing the Cambridge Police Station where he is meant to be stationed, but Scribe Haylen and Knight Rhys informed us that he was not there. All attempts to contact Paladin Danse directly have failed.”

Everything Maxson had ever learned advises him to not trust her, to throw her in the brig until Paladin Danse arrives, and can explain the situation to him. _If_ Paladin Danse arrives. For all they know, he might be dead. A part of him hopes Danse is still alive, if not because he is one of Maxson’s best soldiers, but because might as well be a brother. Many of those who had followed the Lyonses had left the Brotherhood when Maxson had come into power. Danse had stayed by his side, and had dutifully followed him all the way the Commonwealth.

Against his better judgement, Maxson turns back towards the window with a sigh. “Let her in. Keep a gun on her.”

Kells doesn’t salute, nor does he ask for permission to leave. The soft pattering of his shoes are the only thing that signals his exit. The observation deck is quiet, silence interrupted only by the click of the door. The door opens a moment later, this time banging against the wall. The hissing hydraulic hinges of power armour cannot mask the sound of clicking heels against the metal floors of the Prydwen.

“Hands in front of you at all times.” Ingram’s gruff voice is unmistakable. “Is that clear?”

He doesn’t hear a response, but by Ingram’s silence, he can only assume that the intruder is nodding.

Maxson drops the stub of his cigar in an ash tray. The embers glow faintly as they burn out. “Forgive the precautions we’re taking, but how else am I supposed to react to an armed, unnamed woman sneaking aboard my ship?” His tongue is still coated with the taste of smoke. “We don’t take too kindly to strangers around here.”

The Elder pivots on his heel, turning sharply to look at the intruder. Though the woman’s back is to him, and he cannot see her face, the sight of her makes him feel like he’s been punched. He knows she isn’t standing there, but some, irrational part of him doesn’t care. How many sleepless nights has he spent haunted by that golden hair? How many times has he closed his eyes, only to see the images of her body all wrapped in a Brotherhood flag?

 _“Stop worrying,”_ he remembers her telling him, her blue eyes sparkling. She had taken to wearing a crimson cape after her appointment as elder, secured by a silver brooch engraved with the Lyons’ crest. He had been almost as tall as her at that point, and it wasn’t long before he was of age, but she still ruffled his hair like he was five all over again. _“It’s just a simple op. I’ll be fine.”_

He has to remind himself that she’s dead. Hell, he had attended her funeral, but his heart still leaps, and for the briefest of moments, it’s like nothing had ever happened.

“Sarah?”

Pain flashes across Ingram’s weathered visage. She had loved Sarah just as much as Maxson had. They both share the same regret, and he knows she asks herself if anything would have changed if she had gone with her. Would Sarah have lived if Maxson had been there? If Ingram had been there? Or would they have died alongside her? He knows Sarah would never have allowed him to die for her—as the last of the Maxsons, he was too important, and it was her duty to the Brotherhood to ensure that he lived.

But before Ingram can say anything, the woman turns around, and his heart stops. Her hair is the same colour, like golden razorgrain, but her eyes are made of peridot, and not the first washes of blue in sky at dawn. Her features are stronger than Sarah’s; a wider jaw, and high cheekbones that draw attention to her familiarly unfamiliar eyes.

“I’m afraid not.” Her voice lacks Sarah’s innate sharpness—a by-product of being raised in the Brotherhood’s militaristic environment. It’s softer, almost quiet. If she’s curious as to who Sarah is, she doesn’t show it. It a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. He does not know if he would be able to bring himself to speak of Sarah to a stranger, to an outsider. Almost everyone under his command knows of Sarah—he had done his utmost to make certain they remembered her—but few of them know the full story.

Ingram appears as though her breath’s been knocked from her. She chokes as she speaks. “Sir, this is Ridley… General of the Minutemen. General Ridley, this is—”

“Elder Arthur Maxson,” she finishes. Ingram’s lips press together, but she either does not notice, or does not care. “We need to talk.”

He can barely look the woman in the eyes without wanting to be sick. Instead, he looks somewhere over her shoulder. “About?” He is forced to spit his words between gritted teeth.

Ridley even wears her hair the same way, he notes, pulled back away from her face, and tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. At least she does not have the audacity to be wearing Brotherhood armour. He almost wants to throw her off the Prydwen justbecause of her similarity to Sarah, but if she’s the Minutemen’s leader, he knows his hands are tied. The Minutemen have slowly been making a comeback, and their progress has been carefully monitored by his scribes. None of them had reported on her similarity to the previous elder.

Still, the Minutemen are a noble group, and he admires them to a certain degree. Few people care for the safety and well-being of the Commonwealth, and even fewer are doing anything about it. The Minutemen have been protecting as many settlements as they can, and even creating new ones. He had heard that they’d relocated their headquarters to what remained of Fort Independence. Its close proximity to the Prydwen had made him consider sending a squad down to check it out, but he hadn’t wanted to come across as a hostile force. They have enough trouble with the Institute as it is, they don’t need to make an enemy of the Minutemen too.

The General inclines her head, adjusting the cuffs of her blue jacket. He notes with dry amusement that the crest of the Minutemen—a musket crossed by an electric bolt, and crested with three stars—is sewn into her shoulder. How her identity had even been in question, he doesn’t know. “I would prefer,” says the General, “that this conversation be private.”

“You haven’t given me a single reason to trust you.” When he takes a pointed step towards her, she flinches—something Sarah would not have done. She’d have looked him dead in the eyes, and snapped right back at him with that famous Lyons stubbornness. “For all I know, the instant my men step out of the room, you could try to kill me.”

“I’m unarmed.”

“If you’re the General of the Minutemen, then I expect you know that you don’t have to be armed to kill a man.”

A lopsided smile tugs at her lips. “Fair enough.” She rolls her shoulders back, nonplussed. “Then we will do this with an audience. I spoke with your man on the ground. Danse. He wanted to meet me here, but I did you the favour of finding your Paladin, Brandis, and Danse is preoccupied trying to escort him safely for extraction.”

He’s so taken aback, the pain in his chest from appearance fades. “Paladin Brandis?” All his reports had informed him that Brandis was MIA.

“Mm,” she hums. “Commander of Recon Squad Artemis? He’s the last surviving member of his squad. I’d present you with the others’ holotags as proof, but…” She looks away, brows half a shade darker than her hair furrowed. “You will have to believe me when I say that none of them met pleasant ends. Their holotags are with Brandis. I thought I would offer him some sort of consolation. He was holed up in Recon Bunker Theta, hoping that his squad would somehow make it out to him alive.” She has a Pip-Boy strapped to her wrist, and she frowns down at it as it beeps.

His curiosity must be painted across his face, as when she looks up, she purses her lips.

“That would be Danse. His vertibird’s just docked,” the General says.

Maxson clenches his jaw. He doesn’t trust this woman one lick. The Minutemen aren’t nearly as armed as the Brotherhood is, but their network stretches out over nearly half of the Commonwealth, and that makes them dangerous. Within mere minutes, the Minutemen could have an army of furious settlers, and trained soldiers on their doorstep. Just because she reminds him of Sarah does not mean he can trust her.

“You’re tracking him?”

General Ridley arches a brow. “Is that a problem? It was his idea. My second-in-command provided the tracker, and I admit I was intending to plant it on him eventually, but it was Danse who brought the idea up. I put it in his armour, and in return he put mine in my Pip-Boy.”

“Why?”

She blinks. “Why? Because I represent one of the most powerful factions in the Commonwealth, and your paladin was the only Brotherhood soldier I could find who would give the Minutemen a chance to explain themselves.”

He feels like every one of her explanations only raises more questions. “ _Explain themselves,_ ” he repeats.  It’s not so much a question as it is a growl. Little of what she’s saying makes sense. What do the Minutemen want with the Brotherhood, and why did their leader smuggle herself onto a vertibird instead of sending a representative to ask for an audience on her behalf?”

She isn’t granted an opportunity to elaborate, the door banging open once again as Danse all but charges into the Prydwen, Brandis by his side. Danse only stops to salute Maxson as he steps onto the observation deck. “Elder Maxson, sir,” says the gruff Paladin, his brown eyes briefly flicking to Ridley. She flashes him a warm smile. It seems genuine, but he doesn’t know her—or trust her—whether or not to know that it is.

The Elder presses his a hand to his forehead, trying to rub away the headache that’s starting to cause black dots dance in front of his vision. “Paladin Danse, I hope you have a good explanation for all of this.” He gestures for Ingram, and the others to lower their weapons.

“I apologise, sir, I meant to arrive before the General, but it seems I have failed to do so.” The Paladin nudges Brandis forward. “It was thanks to her that I retrieved one of our men.”

Maxson scans Brandis from head to toe. He seems rattled, and perhaps a little worse for wear, but otherwise whole. “I see that. Paladin Brandis, report to Knight-Captain Cade for a medical. Knight-Captain Larsen, please escort him.”

“Of course, sir.”

Brandis doesn’t meet Maxson’s eyes, keeping his gaze to the ground as he shuffles along, prompted by Larsen to hurry his pace.

The Elder turns his attention back to the General, and Paladin Danse. “You two have five minutes before I lose my patience. I don’t appreciate unannounced guests.”

“That was on me.” Ridley takes half a step, moving in front of Danse. She’s too short to properly block the power armour wearing Paladin from view, but the sentiment is clear. “An impulse decision I regret in hindsight, but made for an entrance I’m rather proud of.”

Danse lets out an exasperated sigh, as though he has dealt with her too many times for her behaviour to be anything but mildly irritating. “This, sir, is—”

“I know who she is. She introduced herself about five minutes before you got here, and need I remind you, your time is quickly running short.”

The Paladin goes to speak, but the instant his mouth is open, Ridley jumps in. “I want to join the Brotherhood.”

“You _what_?” hisses Ingram.

Maxson holds up a hand to silence her. She’s too well-behaved to disobey his orders, despite her clear disapproval of the idea. God, he thinks, he needs a drink. “You wish,” he repeats slowly, “to join the Brotherhood? _Our_ Brotherhood?”

The General makes a face. “More correctly, I wish to extend an alliance. You do need one of those, right? You’ve got all the weapons you’ll ever need, but you hardly have the manpower for a full-on assault on the Institute as I know you’re planning. You need new recruits, more food, more bases, more… Well, everything. The Minutemen can provide that, but we want something else in return. We want to have a man on the inside, seeing that you’re not wasting everything we worked for, and that you follow through on your promise to stop the Institute.”

“How do you even _know_ about our plans regarding the Institute?”

“While General Ridley’s entrance may have been on her, I’m afraid that is on me, sir,” Danse says with a cough. “Before you arrived, before the Prydwen arrived, my squad ran into some problems with the local ghoul population. General Ridley was in the area, and offered some assistance. Not only that, but she helped secure ArcJet for us, thus allowing my squad to contact the Prydwen. She continued to assist, and provided us with all the medicine, ammo, and food we needed in order to continue holding the police station. I promoted her to initiate for her contributions. The alliance was discussed later.”

If he had needed a drink before, he needs the whole goddamn bottle now. “You should have run this by me, Paladin.”

“With all due respect, sir, I had no means of contacting you until after I had promoted her.” Paladin Danse straightens, prepared to take on the brunt of Maxson’s frustrations. Truth be told, he’s too tired to be angry. He can’t even look at the General without his stomach twisting, lest he be reminded of Sarah.

He reaches into his pocket, his fingers curling around Sarah’s brooch. He had carried it with him at all times since her funeral, swearing only to part with it once the memory didn’t hurt so much. He had nearly worn the engraving of the Lyons’ lion smooth. “General Ridley,” he says.

“Elder Maxson,” comes her reply.

“We don’t just accept anyone into our ranks,” he informs her. “Especially not those whose loyalty lie elsewhere. It takes a lot of time, and effort, and mental acuity to be a soldier in the Brotherhood. Normally, this is where I would ask you what desire lies in your heart to spark this decision to join our ranks, but you’ve made it clear that you want to see the end of the Institute. _We_ wish to see the Institute’s end because we believe technology is too dangerous to be left unsupervised. So I ask instead: why do _you_ wish to see the Institute’s demise?”

His question takes her aback, and she chews on her lip so hard that it draws blood. It pools into a crimson bead. He has a sudden impulse to wipe it away with his thumb, but it is swiped away a second later as she runs her tongue over the fresh wound. Her answer comes a second later.

“The Institute killed my husband, and took my son.”

The anger in her glittering green eyes is plain enough for anyone to see. Her hands curl into fists by her side.

“I was frozen,” she continues, “in a Vault for _two hundred and ten_ years with my husband, and my baby, and when I woke, not only was the entire world a ghost of what it used to be, but my entire family was _gone_. Everyone I ever loved had either died in the War, or in that Vault. My son Shaun is the _last_ thing I have left of my old life, and I have turned the entire goddamn Commonwealth upside looking for him, only to find out that the assholes at the Institute had stolen him. I respect your cause, Elder Maxson, and I understand your loyalty to your Brotherhood, but understand that this is a little more personal to me than it is to you.”

Two hundred and ten years? He had not known that Vault Tech had had the technology to freeze people. She doesn’t look a day over twenty five. The entire room is taciturn. Ingram hadn’t taken her hand off her gun since he’d ordered her to stand down, but she suddenly drops her hands to her side. Danse seems to have heard this story already, hardly seeming surprised, but still grinding his teeth as though her story angers him just as much as it does her. Kells, meanwhile, suddenly finds one corner of the room interesting.

Maxson bites the inside of his mouth. He knows her rage all too well. It is a grief that only comes with the death of a loved one, but she hadn’t just lost the man she’d loved. She had also lost her son, and he does not know the heartbreak of a parent who’d lost their child. Her eyes are full of tears, and she appears to be holding then back by pure force of will.

Her cause is as just as any—perhaps even more so. It is always the soldiers who have lost everything who fight the hardest for the Brotherhood. They have nothing left to give but their lives, and should they find a cause worth dying for, they are just glad to be reunited with the ones they love. Initially, he had not understood why the Minutemen had chosen her as their general. She carries herself with the same authority Sarah had, but she is less of a warrior than most soldiers.

But few precious things can get between a mother searching for her son.

“You will be working your way through the ranks just like anyone else.” Maxson’s response comes as just as much as a surprise as it does to everyone else in the room. “You will keep me updated on the Minutemen’s decisions, and I will do the same for you. If your settlements need protection, I will provide it, but if I require access to traders, you will do your utmost to secure them. If you have food, or supplies you can afford to give, I ask that you give them, but other than that…”

The Elder clasps his hands behind his back, and somehow manages to look the General in the eyes. “You will eat with the rest of the men, you will sleep with the rest of the men, and you will bathe with the rest of the men. If we are not discussing official business between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood, you are—for all intents, and purposes—just another one of my soldiers, and you will adhere to the strict code of conduct I expect from my soldiers as long as you are representing the Brotherhood. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

He waits for her to notice her mistake. It doesn’t take her long.

“Yes, sir,” she corrects.

“Good. Then you are hereby promoted to the rank of Knight—the _only_ favour I will do you. Any other rank, you will have to earn, just like anybody else. Paladin Danse will be your sponsor, since it was his idea to induct you into the Brotherhood in the first place. Meaning every mission I send you out on, he will come along to supervise. Your allies are welcome to visit the Prydwen, but I am aware the Minutemen’s recruitment standards are different from our own, and I advise that you be cautious. While I will not outright _forbid_ you from inviting a ghoul, a mutant, or a synth up here, you are warned that it is not advised. I am not responsible for how my men treat them.”

“Naturally, sir.”

He has a nagging suspicion that this might not be a good idea, but Ridley is right in a sense. They need all the help they can get in order to defeat the Institute, and the Minutemen are a force to be reckoned with. It is better for the Brotherhood to be on their good side, rather than their bad side, especially since their headquarters are so close to the Prydwen. “Proctor Quinlan will assign you your registration number, while Knight-Captain Cade will conduct your physical. Paladin Danse will run you through everything else. Dismissed.”

Everyone save for Ridley salutes him. A chorus of “ad victoriam” sounds as they exit the room. Danse shoots the General a worrying look as she stays behind, wondering what she’s doing, already insubordinate within mere minutes of being a part of the Brotherhood. A glare from Maxson tells him to leave the two alone for the moment.

“Thank you,” says Ridley, her sharp features softening. “For giving the Minutemen—for giving _me_ a chance.”

He only looks back out the window, suddenly mournful. “I care about them, you know. The people of the Commonwealth,” he says.

She meets his eyes, and in that moment, she looks so much like Sarah his heart aches. Her hand finds his own, fingers intertwining. “I know.” She gives his hand a tight squeeze before dropping his hand—he finds himself missing her touch, though he doesn’t know why. She presses her fist over her heart in a salute. “Sir.”

He watches her with narrowed eyes as she turns to leave. As much as she tries to, she cannot hide the faint smile that passes over her features as she exits the deck. “Knight Ridley,” he says, but she is already gone.


	2. Chapter Two

Maxson lies awake that night, staring up at the ceiling of his quarters. Sarah’s brooch sits on his nightstand. He thought he had moved on from Sarah, but Ridley had just served to remind him of things he hoped to have forgotten. Had they been at the Citadel, he’d be wandering the halls, rather than staring blankly at the ceiling.

He curses under his breath, swinging his legs out of his bed. Maxson’s feet almost seem to lead them of their own volition to the mess hall. He finds himself rummaging through the cupboards for the bottle of whiskey he knows they have somewhere.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He freezes, turning around to see the Brotherhood’s newest recruit sitting at the table. Ridley holds a glowing cigarette between two slender fingers. Her hair is down, golden waves tumbling over her shoulders. The faded green fatigues she sports are a strange contrast to her navy Minutemen coat.

“I was looking for a drink,” he confesses.

She waves a hand at the half full bottle of whiskey before her. “I’m afraid, sir, that I’ve beaten you to it.” She gestures to the empty seat before her. “You could join me. It’s no trouble. I’m only thinking about what loose ends I need to tie up with the Minutemen this week before I can stay on the Prydwen with more frequency.”

Against his better judgement, he pulls a glass from the cupboard. “When will you be back with us?”

“I’m aiming for four days, but it’ll probably be closer to five.” She leans forward to pour him a generous glass, her newly issued holotags shining just under the neckline of her fatigues. “You didn’t answer my question,” she says, reclining in her chair. Ridley brings the cigarette to her mouth, drawing attention to her pale pink lips. She blows it out lazily, as though the action takes as much energy as running a full marathon. “I mean, you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I suppose you’re my superior now. That’s goingto take some getting used to. I’m used to being the one on top.”

He takes a sip from his glass, savouring the taste; it’s somehow enhanced by the smell of her cigarette smoke. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve never had a General serve under me before. Or a pre-war Vault Dweller either.”

She snorts at his words, finding them amusing for reasons he does not wholly comprehend, but there’s a bitter undercurrent to the sound. “I can say in good confidence that it’s unlikely you’ll meet another pre-war Vault Dweller ever again. There aren’t many of us left nowadays.”

“Not many could have survived what you did.” Maxson had kept a careful eye on the actions of the Minutemen’s General. More because he had feared she would be a threat to the Brotherhood than anything else. He had heard of how she’d fought a Deathclaw in Concord, and the sheer number of Gunners she had killed during her short time in the Commonwealth. Not to mention the emotional trauma she must have endured in the Vault by the hands of the Institute.

He has never been a father, to the chagrin of the Western Elders. They want him to continue his bloodline, to ensure that he is not the last of the Maxsons. He does not know her grief, but he can sense her anguish, and he knows it’s all-consuming.

She grimaces, and he realises he has unwittingly stumbled across the source of her bitterness. “I’ve always been rather strong-willed, though some would simply call me ‘stubborn.’”

He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. He feels vulnerable out of his typical leather battlecoat, or perhaps it’s just because of her scrutinising gaze. It feels like she’s peeling back his layers one by one, trying to unearth all of his secrets. “Not necessarily a bad thing. Not if it gets things done.”

“Mm.” She smirks as though she knows how he’s getting under his skin. “I suppose that’s what makes me a good general, but you’ll have your hands full with me as one of your knights.”

“I’ve always liked a challenge,” he says.

“ _Well,_ sir, you are in luck.”

Their casual banter makes him grimace. It comes too easily, like it’s as natural as breathing. He has not even known her for a day, and her very appearance makes his stomach twist— _so why is he struggling to hold back laughter for the sake of maintaining some illusion of propriety?_

Ridley notices his sudden discomfort, and switches subjects. “Before the war,” she says quietly, “I used to be a lawyer. I studied for years. I had only just got my first full time position when I found out I was pregnant with my son.  When I awoke in the Vault, and found myself in this world, my job didn’t exist anymore. Hell, there aren’t any laws for me to even be a lawyer if I wanted to. My husband, Nate, he was always the soldier. He fought in the army, came home a decorated war hero.” Her hands shake as she pours herself another drink. She downs it without blinking. “It was by pure chance that he was holding Shaun in the Vault.”

Maxson has seen this exact behaviour in his soldiers. He knows post-traumatic stress when he sees it, and while he does not fully understand what it is like to lose a child, he knows what it is like to blame yourself for something that cannot be changed. “You think you should have died in your husband’s stead.”

She looks down at her empty glass. She grips it so tight her knuckles have turned white. “Sometimes, yeah.”

“You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” The request seemingly comes out of nowhere, but he nods his permission regardless. Her lips contort into a scowl. “With all due respect, that doesn’t make it hurt any _fucking_ less. I put a bullet right between the eyes of the man that killed Nate, and that didn’t fix shit.  All it left me was a corpse, and the realisation that killing Nate’s murderer didn’t bring Nate back.” She picks up the bottle of whiskey, but rather than pouring herself another glass, she drinks straight from the bottle. “That’s why I’m trying to fix the shithole that the Commonwealth’s become, because it’s the only thing I have left from my life before, and if I lose it… I’m sorry. You came here for a drink, not my life story, and here I am drinking all your whiskey.”

 “No, it’s… fine.” He tells himself that it’s just because she reminds him of Sarah that he already trusts her, not because of some fault in his usual defences. He knows the truth though; as much as she looks like Sarah, she reminds him more of himself than she does of her. He doesn’t trust her enough to tell her of his own problems, though. Ridley is more trusting than he is. “I like to make certain the men, and women, under my command are… doing well.”

“Don’t know if you can use ‘well’ to describe me, but I thank you for your concern. I’m functioning though. That’s good, right?”

He doesn’t give her a straight answer. “I read your interview in that Diamond City newspaper.”

For the briefest of moments, her grief dissipates, leaving behind confusion in its wake. “Piper’s newspaper? The Publick?”

“Mm.” Her brows knit together as she visibly wonders where he is going with this. “You said you can only take it one day at a time. To just keep going, and that’s all we can do.”

She flushes crimson with embarrassment. “Why did you read that? It had been out for weeks before the Prydwen ever came to the Commonwealth.”

“You were a… person of interest. My scribes started amassing a file on you before I ever knew you existed. Scribe Haylen—” Ridley curses under her breath, “—was one of them. Don’t hold it against Haylen. She was only doing what she was told.”

She pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She plucks one out, lighting it in one fluid motion. The scent of cigarettes, and whiskey hangs heavy in the air. He watches her smoke for a moment, swallowing hard as exhales curls of white smoke. “So you’ve amassed a file on me, then,” she says, sounding mildly intrigued. “Anything interesting in it?”

“As infamous as you’ve become, I’m afraid we’re rather lacking in specifics. Everyone just knows you as ‘the Vault Dweller.’ No mention of your full name. Vague descriptions of your actions. Most of it included mentions of all the settlements you, and the Minutemen have helped. The list of settlements is quite… ahem, extensive.”

“I think we’re at twenty six, and counting now.”

He isn’t certain if he should be impressed, or _terrified_. If Ridley had not proposed an alliance, he knows he would have inevitably be forced to end the Minutemen permanently. Hell, the Western Elders probably would want him to put the Minutemen down regardless, but _he_ is the Elder of this chapter, and he will decide what he will do with his men. “I heard you’ve been allowing synths into your ranks. Is that true?”

“Yeah, um, that’s…” She chokes, but it isn’t on the smoke. “Look, I won’t lie to you. They needed somewhere to go, and I decided to offer them a home. I suppose I could have searched for the Railroad, but I don’t wholly agree with their beliefs. Then again, I don’t wholly agree with the Brotherhood’s either, but that’s beside the point.”

He arches a brow. “Don’t wholly agree…?”

“Synths aren’t the problem in the Commonwealth.” He bristles with indignation, and she rushes to explain herself. “The problem is the Institute. Like it or not, we’ve got God knows how many synths out there, and if they’re as autonomous as they claim to be, they’re only weapons because the Institute is manipulating them. No organization in power should be in absolute control, and there always needs to be a certain degree of transparency to ensure that they’re held accountable if they make a mistake. Think of synths like… like a gun. Dangerous on their own, sure, but infinitely more dangerous when in the hands of someone who just wants to see the world burn.”

He doesn’t expect her views to quite match up with those of the Brotherhood. Even some of the squires who have been in the Brotherhood their entire lives have a hard time adhering to Maxson’s personal philosophy. While he doesn’t agree with her, he can at least see where she is coming from. “So what’s your problem with the Railroad? You could have joined forces with them.”

She snorts. “What isn’t my problem with the Railroad? They’re helping synths, but at what expense? Synths should be left to do what they please, but they’re still a weapon. I’ve got a friend. Nick Valentine. You might have heard of  him. He’s a synth, and he’s aware that there might come a time where his programming goes faulty, and he might… do something he’d later regret. The solution to the Institute’s control over synths isn’t wiping their minds, and letting them go off into the world, not knowing who or what they are. They should be able to monitor their own behaviour, and they can’t do that if they don’t know what they are.”

“And let me guess, you don’t agree with Brotherhood because we want to kill all synths?”

“That’s a pretty big one, yeah, but most of your problems will go away once the Institute is gone. The earlier synths will likely shut down, who knows about the second generation, and you know as well as I do that you can’t tell the difference between a Gen 3 synth and a human.”

“Which isn’t a good thing.”

“I’m not saying that it is, I’m just saying that there isn’t anything you can do. I don’t think synth lives are worth less than an ordinary persons, but the Railroad’s belief that synths come before humans is… I don’t know. If they’re trying to help the Commonwealth, I don’t think it’ll work out. The Brotherhood’s got its own problems, but you’re trying to help the people down there at least.”

“So you don’t think we should kill the synths?”

“Not if they’re behaving, and posing no threat to anyone.”

“You have…” He frowns, not quite certain as to what he wants to say. “Quite a strong set of morals.”

“I know it doesn’t mean much anymore, but I _was_ a lawyer before the War. I had to have ‘a strong set of morals.’ That’s what drew me to the Brotherhood in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my time, the government cared for the people, and was willing to fight and die for them. The Minutemen care for the people, but we simply don’t have the means to fight for them. The Brotherhood consists of, first and foremost, soldiers. I know my outdated views don’t exactly translate to the century I now find myself living in, but…” She takes a drag from her cigarette. “Someone’s got to try to make sense of the shit show this world has become, no?”

He finishes his glass of whiskey. It doesn’t escape him that it took him three times as long to finish a glass as it had taken her. “I don’t think ‘stubborn’ beings to describe you, Knight Ridley.”

“No?”

“No,” he reaffirms. “I’d use the word headstrong. Perhaps driven.” He pushes his chair out, and she’s on her feet and saluting before he’s even had the chance to straighten. “Goodnight, Knight Ridley.”

“Sir?” she says as he turns his back to her. When he glances towards her, she’s leaned into the back of her chair, her face raised to the ceiling with her eyes closed. “I told Proctor Teagan when I got my holotags, but unless you’d like to wait until he uploads his file on me, it’s Eleanor. My name. You said you didn’t have it. Eleanor Guinevere Ripley.”

He stands there, silent for a long moment, before pressing his lips together. “Arthur. Maxson.”

She cracks open one eye, and smiles. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Arthur.” A shiver rolls down his spine at the sound of his name. So few people call him by it anymore, and judging by her smile, she knows precisely the effect it has on him.

“Likewise, Eleanor,” he replies, watching as a flush creeps up her neck. When he tries to fall asleep half an hour later, the back of his eyelids are seared with the image of her wicked smile, and gleaming peridot eyes.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of the next chapter, but the two together was almost 9k in length, and that was a bit too long even for me.

Maxson wakes at the crack of dawn, before the rest of his men. Kells has reassured him time and time again that he doesn’t need to be up so early, but truth be told, it’s a habit he can’t quite break. Back at the Citadel, he goes for a run around the Brotherhood’s headquarters. It’s the only moment of quiet he has all day before he is swamped with work.

He groans as he notices that his terminal screen is already blinking with unread messages. His legs feel like they are made of lead as he forces himself to make his way to the terminal.

 

> _Prydwen Internal Network_
> 
> _Mail Terminal Maxson MX-001E_
> 
> _Fr: Knight Ridley RY-985K_
> 
> _To: Elder Maxson MX-001E_
> 
> _Sir, I apologise for not asking your permission personally. I would not have left if it was not urgent. Lancer-Captain Kells was kind enough to grant me, and Paladin Danse leave to address the problem when I woke him in the middle of the night. I did not think it fair to wake you when you have enough trouble sleeping as it is._
> 
> _I have news, and it has to do with Shaun. I have leads on someone who might know how to get into the Institute. If you are interested, and have time to spare, please meet me at the Castle at your earliest convenience. I find that I may need your help. In the meantime, I will be discussing this newfound information with Paladin Danse. Without meaning to be presumptuous, I do think you will want to hear this._

Ridley’s message doesn’t give him much information to go on. It’s rather vague, actually, but if she knows how to get into the Institute… This might change everything. They have spent _weeks_ trying to figure out how the synths get in and out of the Institute. Yesterday, Ingram had warned him allying with the Minutemen is, perhaps, not the best idea he’s ever had, but it’s already starting to pay off.

Maxson runs a hand over his hair, smoothing the locks down, as he steps into his black flight suit. He shrugs his coat over his shoulders a moment later, and he runs out the door while still tying his shoes. He almost collides with Kells.

“Sir,” says the Lancer-Captain, hand over his heart. “I was just about to see if you were awake.”

“You’re rarely up this early, Captain.”

“I thought I should inform you of something that occurred last night, sir. Knight Ridley—”

Maxson holds up a hand to stop him. “Yes. She sent a message to my terminal. You gave her and Paladin Danse leave?”

“Knight Ridley said it was a matter of the utmost importance, but she didn’t explain much more. She assured the Brotherhood would be briefed when she confirmed her suspicions, but she had to leave immediately if she was to do so. I was against the idea of her bringing Danse along, but it apparently was his idea as her sponsor. I thought it would ensure that the Minutemen aren’t hiding anything from us.”

“She didn’t tell you why she was leaving?”

“No, sir.”

The Elder pulls his grey, fingerless gloves over his hands, picking at a stray thread. “Apparently the Minutemen may have found a way into the Institute. She asks that I meet her at the Castle.”

“Is that wise, sir? She might be working with the Brotherhood, but the Castle is the heart of the Minutemen’s operations.”

“The Castle is also within firing distance of the Prydwen,” he reminds him. “Should anything happen, I’m certain you would be able to retaliate. I’m certain Knight Ridley understands the threat mutually assured destruction all too well.” His words make Kells press his lips together. Ridley knows better than anyone the risk of starting a war no one can win. “Now, captain, I find myself in need of a vertibird.”

While Maxson would not trade his position as Elder for the world, he admits that he misses the freedom that comes with the lower ranks. He cannot remember the last time he had gone on a mission, or left the Prydwen on a voluntary basis. Granted, this trip the Minutemen’s base isn’t one borne of pleasure, but its more free rein than he’s had in a long time. He doesn’t realise just how much he misses flying until the vertibird drops away from the Prydwen with a great, sudden swing. The sensation of wind running through his hair is damn near euphoric after being confined to the Prydwen for so long.

The vertibird starts its slow descent towards the formerly abandoned Fort Independence, but lurches back into the air as several warning shots from a laser rifle fly past the starboard side. Even from this height, and over the whirring of the vertibird’s blades, he can hear the yelling that follows.

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Ronnie!” Ridley’s voice is shrill and angry. “Stop trying to shoot down our allies! Jesus!”

The pilot glances back at the Elder, silently asking him if they should try to land a second time. He nods, half exhausted, and half amused. The Minutemen, for all their virtues, are still just a civilian force, not a group of trained military soldiers. As good of a leader Ridley might be, she still has her hands full trying to whip them into shape.

Ridley stands a ways off from the vertibird, Paladin Danse a couple steps behind her in his power armour. Her navy Minutemen coat stands out against her orange Brotherhood jumpsuit. “Elder Maxson,” she says, brushing her golden hair out of her face as he steps out of the vertibird. It takes to the air when he’s far enough away, the pilot resuming the patrols Maxson had interrupted. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. I apologise for your welcome.”

An older woman carrying a laser rifle snorts. “I won’t.”

“Ronnie, that’s enough,” shoots Ridley. Ronnie scowls at the order, slinging her gun over her shoulder before storming off, muttering complaints under her breath. Ridley lets out a sigh, looking to Maxson. “There’s been some… chain of command issues lately. Please don’t mind her. She’s not particularly pleased with having to serve a general ‘younger and less experienced’ than her.”

“I had the same problem,” he admits. After he had taken Sarah’s title, many of the soldiers under his command had requested transfers to other chapters, under older elders. He could have refused them, but to people’s surprise, Maxson had condoned the transfers, rather than condemning them. He would rather have a smaller chapter of loyal soldiers, than a larger chapter full of disloyal ones. Maxson pushes his shoulders back, meeting Danse’s eyes. “Paladin.”

He salutes the Elder. “Sir.”

“Come,” Ridley says with a smile. “We have much to discuss, but I’ll give you a tour first.”


	4. Chapter Four

The Castle is no Prydwen, but the Minutemen have somehow managed to make something of it nonetheless. The Brotherhood had looked at claiming the fort for themselves, but had ultimately decided against it due to the crumbling walls, and mirelurk infestation. There are no signs of any mirelurks now. Even their nests are absent, the only indication of their existence being the soot stains on the granite where the Minutemen had burned the nests to ash. Even the walls have been patched; scaffolding lines the granite outer walls, allowing workers to continue filling in the holes. Even the grounds are cleaner, grass a vibrant green, and the soil dark and fertile. Somewhere in the distance he hears the hum of a water purifier, no doubt connected to the bay Fort Independence sits alongside. All sort of electrical cables criss-cross overhead, providing power to every inch of the Castle.

“Preston—you’ll meet him soon—wanted to turn this area into a trading hub that would rival Diamond City’s market,” Ridley explains, leading him down a newly laid gravel path that cuts through the inner grounds. She gestures as she talks, drawing his attention to specific parts of the Castle. “I opted to make it into a garden. It brings in fewer caps, but at least we won’t have to rely as much on the traders that come by here. You might have noticed when you landed that we’re slowly setting up an irrigation system to turn the surrounding area into farmland, and houses for the farmers. I don’t know an awful lot about gardening, truth be told, but things are slowly coming along.”

Maxson wouldn’t necessarily use the word “slowly” seeing the progress the Minutemen have made, but he knows they’ve been working on this for at least half a year now. “A daunting task,” he says. “What do you think, Paladin?”

Danse almost seems surprised by the question, having kept quiet the entire time. “It’s an ambitious goal, but if anyone can do it, it will be the General.”

Ridley only laughs. “Flatterer,” she says jovially. “Our signal transmitter for Radio Freedom is located in the centre, as you can see, Elder. We wouldn’t be able to be the Minutemen without it. ‘At a minute’s notice’ requires… an awful lot of communication. I’m trying to convince Preston to let me move it somewhere a little more out of the way, but who knows if he’ll agree to it.”

“You said Preston was your second?” Maxson raises a brow.

“Mm, though he’s just as much the General of the Minutemen as I am. I think he just wants someone to put the blame on if something goes wrong, truth be told.” She sweeps her hand behind her. “The western bastion hosts our main residential quarters. The south-west bastion used to be our armoury, but we’ve since cleared out the tunnels beneath the Castle which have now become our armoury. We’re in the midst of turning the south-west bastion into our main food storage, and the door’s always left open, so if you ever get peckish…” Ridley coughs. “The south-east bastion contains what we call ‘the garage,’ and is where we design weapons, armour, chems, and the like. The eastern bastion is our common area, while the northern one consists of my quarters.”

“You’ve done a lot with the place,” Maxson says as she leads them towards the northern bastion.

“We used to operate out of Sanctuary,” she says. “But there were… personal reasons we couldn’t stay.”

“Personal reasons?” he asks, even as Danse’s eyes widen, silently trying to tell the Elder to drop the matter. He doesn’t listen. “What sort of personal reasons?”

Ridley stops in her tracks, twisting the golden band around her ring finger. “It was where I lived before the war.” Her whispering voice cracks. “With Nate, and Shaun.”

He realises immediately that he should have listen to Danse. “Ah.”

She swallows. “Yeah.” She doesn’t give any more explanation that that. All she does is fiddle with her holotags, and continue on walking.

Her quarters are a mess. Papers, and books litter every surface, and dozens of empty bottles of beers are stacked on the coffee table. Beneath the clutter, however, there are pieces that hint to it holding some sort of structure. Papers are stacked by subject, alongside books on similar topics, and the tea is indicative of many late nights spent pouring over them. An empty dog bed is shoved in the corner, surrounded by a small mountain of chew toys.

But her desk is clean, save for one faded picture in a pale blue frame.

A picture of a woman with a head full of golden hair, and bright green eyes, cradling a baby boy.

While the picture has aged, Ridley hasn’t. She looks just as she does in the two hundred year old picture, even down to the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Gone though is the brightness in her eyes, leaving behind nothing but grief, and memories that haunt her more than any ghost ever could.

Ridley catches him staring, and slowly turns the photo over onto its face, hiding the picture from view. “I’m sorry about the mess.” She sounds chipper, cheery, but her smile is forced, and clearly fake. “Preston should join us shortly. Take a seat—can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Nuka-Cola? Something stronger? I have brandy, red wine, white wine, whiskey…” She continues on rattling, but by the look on Danse’s face, both he and Maxson know what this is really about.

For whatever reason, she’s nervous.

She wrings her hands as her questions are met with answers, pacing back and forth in front of the island of her small kitchen. She opens her mouth, as though to speak, but quickly falls silent as four people step into the room.

“Sorry it took so long,” one says, removing a wide-brimmed hat, and placing it on the counter to reveal a man with dark skin, and curly black hair. “Piper started an argument with Mayor McDonough.”

“ _I_ started an argument?” a woman—Piper, Maxson presumes—repeats. Straight, dark brows narrow over hazel eyes as she sweeps her brown hair back over her shoulder. A hand rests on her cocked hip. “ _He_ was the one who came up to me. Sheesh, Preston. Stop blaming me.”

“If you’d ‘ave just punched ‘im in the face ages ago…” starts a woman with bright red hair, her strange accent thick. She looks every inch like a raider, from the permanent scowl that graces her lips, down to her tattered, mismatching armour. Her sunken, pale green eyes drift to Maxson, her scowl deepening, before turning her gaze back to Piper.

“Then she would have been arrested, Cait.” At first, Maxson doesn’t know to whom the gravelly voice belongs to, but then he spots _it_ lurking in the shadows. If its unnatural, glowing eyes aren’t a dead giveaway, then its peeling plastic skin is. It barely manages to cling onto the abomination’s frame, revealing the cogs and gears that keep the damn thing running. A skeletal, metal hand holds a lit cigarette between two fingers.

As a child, there had been few things Maxson had been allowed to do. For the most part, he had been confined to the Citadel, the elders too afraid of anything happening to the last Maxson to let him venture out into the Capital Wasteland. But a young child can only read the Brotherhood’s Codex so many times before getting bored. So, instead, he had spent much of his time learning how to shoot a gun properly. While not _entirely_ a safe activity, the elders had let him get away with it as long as he had been accompanied by an adult.

He can’t even begin to count the hours he had spent in the shooting range, but he does know that he’s one of the best marksmen in the entire Brotherhood.

Which is why, he suspects, everyone is in an uproar when he pulls his gun out on the _thing_ standing in the shadows.

“Hey, now, take it easy,” the man—Preston, he remembers—says, holding his hands up warningly. “Let’s not do anything rash.”

Maxson doesn’t even notice that Cait and Piper both have their own guns on him. He does notice, however, that Danse is surprisingly lacking a weapon. He’s frowning, clearly displeased, but shows no inclination towards violence.

“Blue, if he shoots Nick, I’m going to kill you,” Piper growls, her grip tightening on her pistol.

The redhead permanent scowl stretches into an all too hungry looking smile. “Oh, goodie, I was just thinkin’ I hadn’t shot anyone in a while.”

“Ah, let him be angry,” the thing says, taking a long drag from its cigarette. “It’s been ages since my mere existence has made anyone this angry. I think last time was with bucko over there.”

Danse almost snarls.

Ridley slams her fist down on the counter, the force knocking a precariously placed cup off. It shatters as it hits the ground. “That’s ENOUGH!” For such a small woman, she might as well be yelling through the Prydwen’s P.A system, her voice so loud it makes him grimace. Her fury turns her into something downright frightening, her eyes burning with emerald fire as they turn upon him. “Elder Maxson, if you fire that _fucking_ gun, you will be killing my one chance at finding my son, and Danse, I swear to God, if you say a single damn thing about ‘watching my tone when I speak to the Elder’ I will throw you off the ramparts in your suit into the bay. And Christ, Cait, stop trying to shoot our allies. Piper, I appreciate your concern, but _stand down_.”

Maxson is not used to being yelled at. His men are too subordinate to ever try to say anything, and the few times he’s ever had to report to his superiors, they’ve been too afraid of offending his family name to do anything more than chastise him. He almost doesn’t know how to react. Slowly, but surely, everyone in the room lowers their weapons, though they continue to glare at each other.

“Knight Ridley,” Maxson hisses through gritted teeth, “explain why that… that… that—”

“Rustbucket? Machine? Thing? Abomination?” Its glowing eyes narrow. “Or are you going to call me what I actually am?”

“Nick, stop antagonising him.” Ridley lets out a heavy breath, wincing as she looks down at the mess the glass has made.

“You _named_ it?”

“No, Elder,” Ridley says sharply, bristling with indignation. “ _He_ has a name, and I expect you to use it. You asked me to follow the code of conduct you expect your men to follow whilst I am representing the Brotherhood. Right now, I am the General of the Minutemen, and you are, for all intents and purposes, a guest. So I ask you to do the same with _our_ code of conduct.”

He hears her point. And hell, a part of him—the _rational_ part of him—even acknowledges it, but his ire has been sparked, and he cannot stop himself from saying the next words that fall out of his mouth. “It’s a _synth_ ,” he spits. “A creation that transcends the destructive nature of the atom bomb.”

The silence that immediately follows makes him regret his words. Everyone is suddenly staring at the ground, unable to look both him, and Ridley in the eye. It’s a comparison he’s used before—a comparison that oft silences the insubordinate initiates who dare to speak out against his orders. But it is not a comparison the Vault Dweller has any care for.

Her fists slowly unfurl, instead gripping onto the edge of the counter, as though it will anchor her in place, and keep her from lunging at him. “Of all the people in this room,” she says, softly, quietly, and it’s somehow more threatening than her earlier shouting, “who need to be reminded about the destruction an atom bomb can cause, Elder Maxson, I am not one of them.”

The fear that paralyses him is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. Not even when he’d stared into the eyes of the Deathclaw that had left him with the large scar running across the right side of his face. Deathclaws are a known threat, and there have been stories of untrained settlers, with an incredible amount of luck, taking them down. But Eleanor Ridley has gone through hell and back, and survived. She has walked out from the ashes of the old world with nothing more than a fierce, furious fire burning in her heart. No one who has ever stood against her have lived to tell the tale.

He has no response for her, but her sour expression twitches with a small degree of pleasure as he holsters his laser rifle.

She still doesn’t let go of the counter, instead jerking her head as a substitute for gestures. “Now, introductions. That is Preston Garvey—” the man tips his hat at the Elder, “—my second-in-command. He calls me ‘General’ but he does twice as much work as I do, and never takes any credit for it.”

Preston laughs. “Perhaps, General, but you do all the hard work.”

“Arguable,” she replies. She tilts her head toward the redheaded woman. “That’s Cait. She’s a good friend, and one hell of a fighter. If you need someone decked, or something stolen, she’s your gal.” The Irishwoman scoffs, but otherwise remains quiet. Ridley continues, looking to the brunette. “You should know Piper. She’s the one that wrote the paper on me that you read. Nosey as all hell, but she’s great for wheedling information out of people.”

“Ah, Blue, you’re always so nice to me,” Piper teases, unable to hide her grin.

Ridley pays her no mind, looking Maxson dead in the eye. “Finally, we have Nick Valentine. Synth detective, and the man—” Her use of human pronouns is nothing if not defiant, and an open dare for Maxson to say something about it, “who’s helping me find Shaun. My inner circle. We’re missing Hancock, but I thought you’d have a hard enough trouble with Nick that you wouldn’t be able to deal with having a ghoul hanging around. MacCready was more than happy to keep him company so he didn’t feel excluded. You’ll likely meet Hancock later. Mac says he’s met you before, and has no inclination to meet you again.”

A synth, _and_ a ghoul? He’s starting to wonder if it hadn’t been his best idea to accept Ridley into the Brotherhood’s ranks, but Danse had sponsored her quite confidently. Hell, he’d even promoted her from recruit to initiate. “Is that all?”

“There’s Codsworth and Curie, but Curie’s tending to a couple of our injured, and Codsworth helping clean. Codsworth is our resident Mr Handy, and Curie is… Well, _was_ a Miss Nanny, but we recently uploaded her into a synth body, so she’s… unique. We used to have a mutant travelling with us by the name of Strong, but he parted ways with us some time back. I have a dog too, Dogmeat, but he does his own thing. I think he’s wandering down by the bay. Of course, you know Paladin Danse already…”

It’s not even noon, and he already has a headache. “You called me here to talk about the Institute,” he says. Slowly, he sits back down. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Not exactly cheery, are you?” Cait mumbles, perching atop a barstool. Piper soon takes the one to her left, Preston leaning against the fridge. Danse and Ridley are the only ones standing.

Ridley doesn’t acknowledge Cait’s complaints. “That’s where Nick comes in. Three weeks ago, with Nick’s help, Piper and I tracked down a lead on the man who killed my husband, and we found him camped out in what’s left of Fort Hagen. He told me that the Institute had _paid_ him to kidnap Shaun, and that…” Her voice chokes. “That Nate was just ‘a regrettable accident.’”

Piper makes a face, fiddling with the fraying hem of her red coat. “ _Accident_ ,” she repeats under her breath. “You don’t look someone in the eyes, and shoot them, and call it an _accident_.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” says Ridley. “I killed Kellogg either way. Pulled this cybernetic implant from his skull, and Nick had the idea to take it to the memory den. I saw through his eyes, even as he…” Her husband’s death is clearly her biggest weakness. She can’t even mention his name without choking up. He knows first-hand what that’s like, but he can avoid talking about Sarah. A third of his men have never even met the youngest Lyons, and over half only knew her in passing. He can count the number of people who called her a friend on one hand. Ridley doesn’t have the same opportunity. To find Shaun, she must relive the day of her husband’s death over, and over, and _over_ again.

He wonders if she’s even had the opportunity to grieve.

“In the memories,” she continues, glossing over the painful thoughts, “we discovered that the Institute has some sort of… I don’t know, a teleporter? It’s how their synths seem to appear out of nowhere, and disappear into thin air. Also why no one’s found a way into damn Institute. The Minutemen have spent the past two weeks trying to figure out how to use it to our advantage. The only lead we’ve had thus far is the name Dr Brian Virgil—an Institute scientist, who apparently left because of ‘disagreements’ with the director. Institute Coursers, however, have one job, and its tracking down people who don’t want to be found, and even they can’t find Virgil.”

“He might be dead.” Maxson blinks, surprised, when Ridley tosses him an ice-cold beer, and a bottle opener without warning. He almost drops them. It is by some small miracle that he doesn’t.

Cait jerks her head towards Ridley. “You’re not keepin’ that all to yourself, are you?” she asks.

Ridley laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “Of course not, Cait,” she says, handing a bottle to the Irishwoman.

“I fuckin’ love you sometimes, you know that right?”

“We considered that,” Piper says, eyes on Maxson as she leans back on the counter. “But then I did a little poking. Asked a few questions here, asked a few questions there… Everyone we asked agreed on one thing: that somehow Virgil’s still alive, just… hidden. So we started thinking, and Blue sent out some scouts, and then…”

“And then last night, I got a message,” Preston finishes. “From one of our scouts. He managed to track Virgil down. He wanted permission to continue his mission.”

“Permission? Why?”

Ridley pries off her bottle cap on the edge of the counter, rather than wait for the bottle opener to make its rounds. “Because a single scout wearing little more than a few pieces of leather armour, and armed with nothing but a pipe pistol can’t do an awful lot in the Glowing Sea. Which is why I woke in the middle of the night to multiple attempts to reach me over Radio Freedom, because Preston didn’t know what to do. I went to go inform Paladin Danse that I would need to take a short leave of absence to address the matter, and to find a solution, and it was his idea that the Brotherhood could help.”

He knows where this is going. The Prydwen is well equipped with large quantities of Rad-X and Rad Away. But more importantly… “You want power armour to go into the Glowing Sea.” While the Brotherhood’s standard-issue power armour isn’t wholly radiation proof, when used in conjunction with Rad-X, the effects of radiation are almost negligible. “You were given a suit when you were promoted to Knight.”

“Yes, but modifications will need to be made, and I don’t want to pay for them. Especially not if this is benefitting the both of us. Not to mention, if I’m going, Paladin Danse I suspect will be accompanying me as my mentor, which is another set of power armour that would have to be modified. On top of that, I don’t have any Rad-X to spare, but I’ve seen Knight-Captain Cade’s stocks…”

He holds up a hand to stop her, and to his surprise, she falls silent. Sarah would have ignored him. Maxson grimaces inwardly. He shouldn’t keep comparing them. It’s not fair for either of them, especially not Ridley who already has so much she has to prove. Sarah’s legacy, and the legacy Ridley is trying to make for herself are two entirely different things. The youngest Lyons had always cared about the Brotherhood more than anything else.  Ridley has to worry about the Minutemen, her settlers, the people of the Commonwealth, finding Shaun, and now she’s voluntarily taken on responsibilities that come with being a part of the Brotherhood.

“As a member of the Brotherhood, and for providing me with this information, I am certain Proctor Ingram will be more than happy to provide you with what you need. So long as you keep us updated on the Minutemen’s attempts to use the teleporter in exchange, and you do me a favour tomorrow.”

“A favour?”

“It’s nothing out of your comfort zone, and fits your skills well. I will discuss details back on the Prydwen.”

“Any, and all the information we have on the Institute is yours, Elder. It’s the least we can provide,” says the General, her attention piqued by his vague request. “And as your knight, if you have Brotherhood business, I am required to obey.”

She puts a little too much emphasis on “obey,” watching his reaction. He doesn’t want her to be subservient. While he does want her to follow orders, this alliance of theirs means that despite behind his subordinate, she will always be a step above her peers. No Brotherhood ranks can take her position as General away from her.

Ridley raises her beer towards him in a half-hearted attempt at a toast. Everyone holding a drink follows suit. “To new friends.”

“To new friends,” everyone in the room repeats, with varying degrees of authenticity. While Piper and Preston are grinning, Cait, Danse, the synth—he _refuses_ to call it by its name, which is, no doubt, stolen—all sport scowls.

Maxson is the only one that remains silent even as he raises his glass, eyes locked with Ridley’s. Her lips curl into a coy smile, and she shoots him a wink before downing what’s left of her beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Maxson ever get his head out of his ass about synths? Probably, but it won't be any time soon.


	5. Chapter Five

The Commonwealth below is blanketed in a thick, heavy blanket of fog that turns the already barren, and somewhat foreboding wasteland into something ominous, and mysterious. The fog has already proved to be somewhat of a problem, granting the Brotherhood soldiers more cover, but also reducing sightlines. They have no choice. This mission needs to be completed, and it needs to be completed soon. Hell, Maxson should have made them go through with it yesterday, but he had spent too long at the Castle discussing the intricacies of Ridley’s trip to the Glowing Sea to do much else.

Kells hadn’t been all too pleased.

Maxson leans against the cold metal railings of the Prydwen’s bow, eyes narrowed at the faint outlines of Fort Strong below.

“Elder.” While Ridley’s tone is as respectful as it usually is, save for the few times he’s earned her anger, he notices that she sounds a little more exhausted than she usually does. Her hair is tied back again in a tight knot at the base of her skull, and she’s exchanged her Minutemen coat for a simple Brotherhood jacket lined with wool. It’s almost strange to see her sporting the crest of a sword against a backdrop of gears, rather than the Minutemen’s crossed rifle and bolt surrounded by stars.

“Didn’t get enough sleep?” He speaks in jest, but they both know some part of him is concerned for her health.

“I have a hard enough time sleeping as it is, and I’m afraid I got quite the stern talking to about your behaviour yesterday,” she mumbles, yawning into the back of her hand. “Nick wasn’t all that affected. He’s used to worse from the knights that stop in Diamond City’s marketplace, but Cait and Piper were damn near _livid_.”

“The knights that stop in Diamond City?” he repeats, narrowing his eyes. Against synths as the Brotherhood is, his men have explicit instructions to avoid conflict with respected synths in public spaces. He dislikes Ridley’s synth companion, but as a prominent figure in Diamond City, and protected by the Minutemen, it is unfortunately protected.

“Your men occasionally drop by the city to resupply. Nick’s provided an awful lot to Diamond City, you know. More than most of the human residents. He’s tracked down kidnapped children, stopped thefts as well as assassination attempts. Hell, he’s tracked down synths that were trying to stir chaos. Your men have… not treated him kindly.”

Her hesitation to elaborate makes him frown. “In what sense?”

“They’ve threatened to kill him, physically assaulted him, demanded caps in return for his safety, threatened to turn him over to a courser, said that they were going to take him apart for spare parts…” She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “It got to the point where Danse ordered them to stop, and they didn’t. It caused… a scene.”

He understands that some of his men feel passionately about synths, but they have no right to ignore the orders of a superior officer. “Do you know their names?”

“Knight-Sergeant Lawson, Lancer Chapman, and Initiate Brown, I believe. Danse—er… Paladin Danse, rather, does not hide the fact that he does not get along with Nick, but he has the courtesy of being civil. If it weren’t for the crowd, I think he might have dragged Lawson, Chapman, and Brown into the nearby alley, and… _reminded_ them that he outranks them.”

Maxson looks back out at Fort Strong. “Thank you, Knight. I’ll look into it. If any more of my men cause problems for your allies, please let me know.”

“Even if they’re synths?”

“Or if they’re ghouls, yes. Regardless of whether or not they like it, we are now brothers-in-arms with the Minutemen, and if you have accepted these…” He almost says creatures, but the slight narrowing of her eyes warns him not to. “These people into your fold, then they should be treated with the same respect deserving of any other soldier, provided they do not do anything that would get any other member punished.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “I… Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”

He dismisses the matter with a flippant wave of his hand. “No matter.”

Ridley leans back against the railing, her arms crossed over her chest. “So what’s the sort of favour you’re asking of me?”

“The sort where you get to show off what you’ve learned during your time spent in the Commonwealth,” Maxson says. He tilts his head towards the fort below them. “Take a look over there. What do you see?”

“In the fog? Nothing.”

From anyone else, such insolence would have earned them a sharp reprimand. Ridley, he knows, isn’t doing it in an attempt to undermine him. Her ability to put on a positive face even in the face of immediate danger is what earned her the respect of her men. Even when all hope is lost, she braves the storm. He knows what it is like to maintain appearances for the sake of morale.

So rather than getting offended, Maxson simply shoots her a sharp look. It only makes her grin. “That’s Fort Strong.”

“I know,” she says. “I visited it once, as a child.”

Sometimes he forgets that she is a woman literally out of time. “I imagine it wasn’t infested with Super Mutants back then.”

“Considering the fact that Super Mutants didn’t exist back then, no, it didn’t.”

He scowls. “Knight Ridley, this is no laughing matter. Having those aberrations of nature close enough to smell is making me sick to my stomach.”

“Judging by the way the wind is blowing, it’s likely the smell of Marcy’s stew coming in from the Castle.” Her smile doesn’t drop even as his scowl deepens. “With all due respect, sir, _relax_. I’m certain the next thing you’re going to say is a request for me to go with a team, and take them out. They’ll be gone by nightfall.”

He gives up. She is three times worse than Sarah. At least Sarah knew when to hold her tongue. “It’s not their existence that is the problem, Knight Ridley, though they’ve already hurt several knights.”

“Shit, really?”

“ _Language_ ,” he reminds her, making her flush. “This is a serious matter, Knight. They’re sitting on top of a massive stockpile of Fat Man shells we could use in our campaign.”

That seems to get her attention. “ _Shit_ ,” she repeats, ignoring his previous words entirely. He bristles, but he can’t bring himself to reprimand her. Her reaction is the same as his had been when he’d first heard the news. A little more vulgar, perhaps, but the sentiment is the same. “You know, when I woke up in the Vault, I’d hoped humanity would have learned. Weapons are dangerous, don’t use weapons, et cetera. No, instead I find a world that’s positively armed to the teeth. The only difference is that they lack the technology to destroy the whole world over again.”

“That’s why the Brotherhood’s primary goal is to keep technology out of people’s hands.”

“There’s technology that can help, and not destroy,” she shoots back at him without pause. “Look at Washington. If the Brotherhood had confiscated every piece of technology, then you wouldn’t have an unlimited source of purified water, now would you?”

 _Sarah had been a part of that_. She had watched helplessly as one of the Brotherhood’s sisters, a Vault Dweller by the name of Ashley, had walked into the radiation flooded room in a last ditch effort to restore water to the Capital Wasteland. It was by pure luck that she had survived.

He doesn’t have very many clear memories of her, despite how many people ask him what it was like to know the Lone Wanderer personally. He had been, what, ten at the time? All he remembers his irrational jealousy that Sarah had fallen in love with her, as though his childhood crush on the young Lyons would ever lead anywhere.

Maxson decides not to respond to her deliberate taunting. “I trust that I don’t have to explain your orders to you, Knight.”

She falls silent, pulling out her 10mm pistol, and examining the many modifications she’s made to the poor thing. Along with glow sights, and a suppressor, she’s added an extended barrel, and God knows what else. He realises then that he’s never seen her fight. Danse seems to trust her skills, though, and his reports of her battlefield prowess are positively _glowing_ , and the Paladin isn’t an easy man to please.

Then again, neither is Arthur Maxson.

“Kill anything that moves, secure the Fat Man shells,” says Ridley. She holsters her gun. “Should be simple enough.”

“The mutants will likely be using the Fat Man shells themselves.”

“I stand by what I said.”

He narrows his eyes. Even the bravest of his soldiers would be wary of heading straight into nest full of mutants armed to the teeth. “Have you ever used a Fat Man, Knight?”

She shuffles where she stands. “No, sir.”

Ah. That would explain it. “Let me put it this way, then: one well-placed shot could take down the entire Prydwen. If you ever have the pleasure of firing one of them, allow me to give you a word of advice. Don’t fire one of them in close quarters, or there won’t be enough of you to bury in a shoebox.”

“Perhaps once they’re secured then, sir, you will have to give me private a lesson on how to handle them properly.” There’s something undeniably suggestive about her tone, and the quirk of one blonde brow. He isn’t quite certain what she’s getting at, but suddenly the collar of his black uniform feels a little too tight.

He clears his throat, trying to dryness of his mouth. “Perhaps,” is all he manages to say.

She only laughs at his discomfort. “No worries, sir. Consider it done.”

“Look,” he says, bringing the topic back to the mission if only to give him something to focus on. “I realise you’re eager to take the fight to the Institute, and I’m sorry. You can see why this is a large concern.”

“No, no, I understand. The Super Mutants pose a more immediate threat to the Brotherhood. If they’re clever enough to shoot the Prydwen, then… Besides, it’ll take Proctor Ingram several days to make the modifications to the armour.”

Her understanding makes him feel a little more relieved. He had worried she would not take well to being forced to stop trying to find her son in favour of helping the Brotherhood.

“I have a vertibird on standby, fully armed, and ready to depart when you’re ready,” Maxson continues.

She smiles. “Thank you, sir.”

“And perhaps when you’re back with the Fat Man shells,” he says, turning away from her to look out at Fort Strong, “I might take you up on that private lesson. Dismissed.” He can hear her pealing laughter all the way to the vertibird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update was supposed to come a couple of days ago but it's exam season, so I apologise but damn if I'm not setting up this slow burn


	6. Chapter Six

Once, when he was ten, Sarah had decided she’d had enough of trying to find a new recruit to replace Initiate Reddin’s place in the Lyons’ Pride. She’d declared that she was going to take the day off, and no one had dared to challenge the decision. Arthur had been confined to his room for the better part of the day, and her suddenly showing up at his door had been nothing short of a pleasant surprise.

He had accidentally shot her several months earlier—which had led to him being prohibited from going on any patrols—and he had expected her to stay angry with him. He had put her out of duty for nearly a week while she had recovered. She made no mention of the accident when she came in, lacking her usual power armour. He still remembers how she had cocked her hip, resting her hand on her waist, and asked him with a bright-eyed grin, _“Hey, Arthur, you wouldn’t want to learn how to kill a man by stabbing them in him in the kidneys, now would you?”_

He pinpoints that as the day that he realised his affections for her ran deeper than he’d previously thought.

Someone knocks on his door. And then: “Sir, I think we need to talk.”

Ingram isn’t one to beat around the bush, especially not when it comes to Maxson. They have known each other for too long for her to bite her tongue when she has an opinion. She isn’t anywhere near as insolent as Ridley is, but she is just as brash, and nearly as headstrong.

 “At ease, Proctor. What seems to be the problem?” says Maxson, turning the screen of his terminal off. Paladin Danse, and Ridley—Maxson doesn’t quite know how to address her in his head. Ridley? General Ridley? Knight Ridley? _Eleanor?_ —has yet to return from Fort Strong, though he has been alerted that there are no mutants left outside of the fort. In the meantime, he had begun the long, and arduous task of writing letters to the family members of Recon Squad Artemis, informing them of their loss.

There is no doubt that the letters of condolences are the worst part of his job.

He will have to get Kells to gather a small squad to retrieve the bodies. He won’t let them rot out there in the wasteland, forgotten and alone. Their holotags faintly shine on his desk, Paladin Brandis silently handing them over before the Elder could ask. Nothing in the report had said that Ridley had been asked to collect the holotags. She had done that of her own volition.

“It’s about Knight Ridley, sir.”

He’s not surprised. In the three days since Ridley had joined the Brotherhood, several members of the Brotherhood—including a member of Danse’s recon squad, Knight Rhys—had expressed their doubts about the General. Their complaints are very similar, reminding him of the Codex as though he has not long since memorised its words.

_Shield yourself from those not bound to you by steel, for they are the blind. Aid them when you can, but lose not sight of yourself._

His problems would disappear if he only made Ridley recite the Oath of Fraternity like any other member of the Brotherhood, but a part of him fears her refusing to do so. He’s spent the past several ideas considering the idea. He knows though that it would only create a conflict, to have her pledge her full allegiance to the Brotherhood. They cannot afford to spurn her by asking her to put her allies above her friends.

 _He_ cannot afford to spurn her.

“Proctor, there is a system in place for making complaints,” Maxson sighs. “I advise that you use it—”

Ingram shuts the door to Maxson’s quarters behind her, her countenance solemn, and grim. “With all due respect, this is more about you, than it is about her.”

The Elder frowns. “What is this about, Ingram?” he asks slowly, tentatively. He speaks to her not as Maxson, but as Arthur, worried about the source of his long time friend’s concern.

Ingram wrings her hands nervously, and if her power armour had allowed for such mobility, he knows she would be pacing the length of his room. “When Knight Ridley first came aboard the Prydwen, I knew at once that it would… cause a conflict of interest. I had hoped you wouldn’t notice, but during your first meeting with her, you clearly did. Then I thought perhaps you wouldn’t care, that it wouldn’t be a problem, but in the past week, you’ve shown Knight Ridley a _clear_ favouritism that isn’t simply the result of your decision to ally with the Minutemen—an alliance I think was needed, despite some of the complaints I’ve been hearing. Your message to all Brotherhood members that the synth known as Nick Valentine was to be protected only confirmed that you—”

“ _Hannah_ ,” he says sharply, catching the older woman’s attention. “What,” he repeats, “is this about?”

She goes silent, turning her gaze to Sarah’s brooch, still sitting on his nightstand from two days ago. “I know you miss her almost as much as I do, but Ridley… Ridley isn’t Sarah. No matter how much she looks like her.”

 A pain shoots through Arthur’s chest at Sarah’s name. “My relationship with Ridley is strictly professional.”

“I talked to Kells. He told me how you dropped everything to fly to the Castle at a moment’s notice. You aren’t quick to trust, and yet you already trust her enough to not suspect that you were walking into a trap. Don’t… don’t tell me it was because Danse was there. We both know that that’s a lie.” Her face falls, scarred visage mournful as she remembers the woman they had both loved. “She isn’t Sarah,” she repeats.

“I know.”

“There are Initiates who’ve been in the Brotherhood longer than she has, who’ve yet to earn a promotion. She doesn’t even use her armour. It’s been sitting in Bay Three since you gave it to her, and now you’ve ordered me to make it as radiation resistant as possible.”

“She’s found a way into the Institute, Ingram,” Maxson says, running a hand over his face. Her doubts are warranted. He hasn’t been very clear with the people closest to him. As far as they’re aware, he’s accepted an outsider into their fold without question. “There’s a scientist who fled the Institute. He’s rumoured to be hiding in the Glowing Sea. That’s why she needs the armour modified.”

His response takes Ingram by surprise. “We’ve been scouring the Commonwealth for _weeks_ , and we’ve found no entrance.”

“There isn’t one. Ridley compares it to teleportation.”

“Teleportation,” Ingram repeats. “ _Right_. She knows this how?”

“The specifics elude me, but she assures me that the information is valid.”

“What about the synth? The one they call Valentine?”

His lower lip curls in a scowl. “A point of contention,” he says. “It has unfortunately allied itself with the Minutemen, and Ridley considers it a friend. She has apparently discussed this with Danse previously. I attempted to pull my weapon on it, and had two turned upon me in return. She may be a Knight, but she will be the General of the Minutemen first. We have to extend it the same courtesy and protection to any of her other companions. She is doing us the same courtesy. Is that all?”

“She has yet to recite the—”

“—Oath of Fraternity, but she will refuse she is asked to,” Maxson finishes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He had been waiting for the conversation to come back round to the Oath. “She’s stubborn. Headstrong. I would not be able to sway her.” He does not say it, but they both know it: _she’s too much like Sarah._

“Have you asked her?” Ingram presses her lips together, brown eyes glittering with humour as he doesn’t reply. “You should try that.” She acknowledges Maxson’s youth, and his subsequent lack of experience, even if most don’t, while still remaining respectful. Ingram looks tired, her shoulders sagging within the frame of her armour. “Arthur… just… be careful. I say that not as your proctor, but as your friend. Ridley isn’t Sarah.”

“Trust me,” Maxson says, looking to the brooch. “I know.”

Ingram follows his gaze, and nods, as though deeming his answer more than satisfactory. He doesn’t need her to remind him, truth be told; he had watched them burn her body. The memory still haunts him. He doesn’t dismiss the Proctor, but she leaves the room regardless, the thumping of her steps announcing her departure.

And the instant the door shuts behind her, Maxson takes Sarah’s brooch from his nightstand, and locks it away in a drawer next to his mother’s wedding band, out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the filler chapter, but I wanted to get some more Sarah/Maxson relationship building in here before we get to the ~sexy times~ in a couple chapters. Also kind of important because Sarah's girlfriend, aka the Lone Wanderer, will be showing up in the later chapters, and boy do I love some angst, especially if it's about how Maxson inadvertently led Sarah to her death. ~~Listen, Bethesda, if you're not going to give me canon info about my girl, I'm going to make things up, leave me alone.~~ Eleanor's back in the next chapter, with some nice fluffy angst (are those two statements contradictory?) to accompany her.


	7. Chapter Seven

“I would ask you if I was keeping you up, but I know you’d be up anyway.” Ridley wears a sly grin, leaning against the door frame of the observation deck. Wet blonde hair brushes her shoulders. “Took us damn near close to a day to secure the fort, and another to inspect the shells we secured. I apologise for the delay. I’d have been back this morning, but I didn’t think you wanted to discuss business while I was covered in mutant viscera.” She grimaces at the sound of her own words. “That wasn’t the best way of putting that. Sorry.”

“Thank you for your consideration, though I assure you I’ve long since built up a tolerance,” Maxson replies softly, his voice lacking the same humour hers holds. Night has long since fallen, the view outside the Prydwen dark and foreboding. A radstorm glows emerald on the horizon, the flashes of lightning visible even from this distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her incline her head, sharply angled brows furrowing as she steps towards him. “You alright?”

The grip of his clasped hands tighten, trimmed nails leaving small crescent moon indents on his skin. “Paladin Danse gave me a report of Fort Strong. Outstanding work, soldier.”

Ridley’s face falls, crestfallen. “Thank you, sir,” she says dejectedly. “It was an honour fighting for the Brotherhood.”

Her words sound so forced they make him grimace. He knows it’s only a response to the sudden formality of their interactions. Ingram is right. He’s been showing her too much favouritism. This affair is a political one, and exists only to see the end of the Institute. The Minutemen’s knowledge, in exchange for the Brotherhood’s resources. There isn’t anything else about this.

He turns ever-so-slightly to look at her, noting the way her teeth catch on her lower lip, and her downcast eyes as green as the radstorm looming in the distance. They spark with the same electricity. “Eleanor,” he says, and her head snaps up at the sound of her name. “You did a good job.”

Try as she might, she cannot hide the now-familiar crimson that creeps up her neck at the praise. There is a difference, he has noticed, between the woman standing before him, and the General. The latter is loud, and brash, and demands attention. The former just looks… tired, like she’s slowly drowning with every breath she takes.

Ridley runs her tongue over her cracked lips. “Thank you,” she repeats, but it’s softer this time, and she meets his gaze. “But there’s still a lot to be done.”

He wants to suggest that they take this relative peace to take a moment to breathe, to collect themselves before they continue their mission. He knows she wouldn’t agree to it. She won’t stop until she finds her son, and he cannot ask her to just so he does not have to worry about the health of another one of his men. It’s his concern for her as her Elder that is the source of his worry, he tells himself, but he knows the truth.

“You’re right about that,” is what he says instead, scratching at his beard, hair as black as the night outside. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t celebrate this victory, even if we still have the matter of Virgil to address. If the Institute has the capability to teleport its synths, we’re in for quite a fight. Proctor Ingram has finished the modifications to both yours, and Paladin Danse’s suit of power armour. I presume you’ll be off come morning?”

“Not quite yet, I think,” she replies. “It’s… quite the journey, going to the Glowing Sea, even if we take a vertibird to its border. I’ll be gone for the better part of a week and a half, so I’ll need to get Preston to take over some of my responsibilities. Not to even _begin_ addressing the matter of supplies…” She leans against the railing alongside him, her wedding ring glinting in the low light. “Besides, you owe me a private Fat Man lesson, now don’t you?”

It’s his turn to flush, having nearly forgotten their arrangement, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her gaze is on the Commonwealth, her unmarked visage twisted with grief.

“How old are you?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

A small smile twitches at the corner of her mouth at the question, but she indulges him regardless. “Two hundred and thirty four, if you count the time I spent in the Vault. If you don’t… twenty four. Piper’s the only one who says I’m two hundred and thirty four, mostly because she’s an ass. Why?”

He had almost hoped she would’ve been older. It would have been easier to distance himself. But no, she’s but five years his senior. Any discolouration of her skin has happened naturally, not because of exposure to radiation, and the few scars she has are the result of minor accidents, not ugly gashes that split her face in two. It differentiates her from him. He has ugly patches of raised skin across his body, and he will carry the marks of the Deathclaw he had killed forever. The biggest problem, to the Western Elders at least, would be the risk of his fertility. All of these problems he has, and she looks like she stepped out of a goddamn _Picket Fences_ magazine.

Even Sarah had been just as bad as Maxson.

“You seem older,” he answers, instead of telling her the truth. He is too proud to admit his envy out loud.

She snorts. “Happens sometimes, when you go through hell and back. You’re, what, thirty?”

“Twenty.”

Ridley freeze, her entire body locking up. Her eyes go wide. “You’re _twenty_? Shit.” She still has some of that “youthful immaturity” Ingram likes to tease him for having. All of her amusement disappears in an instant, however, shoulders sagging. She is Atlas, carrying the weight of the world. He has the entire Brotherhood helping him with his responsibilities. She has the Minutemen, but it isn’t the same. There are things she will never be able to ask from them, things that Maxson asks of his men. Her people are civilians. His are soldiers. The Brotherhood is ready to die if it gets the job done, but she is finding the Minutemen a home, not a war they cannot win.

Somehow, he suspects she’s seen enough death to last several lifetimes.

“Do I really look thirty?” he asks her, almost concerned. He knows he hasn’t been sleeping at night, and his smoking habit isn’t helping. Not to mention the spike in his alcohol use.

“Look it? No, not really.” Her gaze drops back down to her ring, and she twists it aimlessly around her finger. “You just seem so… I don’t know. Regal? Proud. Not in a bad way. You’re just so… imposing. I’m only going to say it once, and then I’ll never repeat it again, so you better damn well pay attention.” He raises a brow. “You scare me.”

“I scare you?”

“Not in a bad way!” she is quick to explain, her hands darting out to grip his forearm. He flinches, surprised by the touch, and she pulls her hands back just as quickly as she’d grabbed him. She presses her knuckles to her lips. “Forget I said anything,” she mumbles.

“I’m afraid I will do no such a thing. Must I command you to elaborate?”

“Oh, we both know you could never order me to do anything I don’t want to do,” she says, still not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know what I meant, truth be told. You… You make me feel inferior.”

Inferior? _Inferior?_ She is an accomplished, educated woman in her own right, and yet she somehow feels inferior to him? A gruff, unsociable twenty year old, who is unable to sleep for the memories that plague him more than any sickness could?

“It’s irrational, I know,” she continues, ignoring his silence. “I suppose it is because you always seem to be in control. You’ve found your calling in the Brotherhood.”

“You have the Minutemen,” he points out.

“And I care for them, deeply, but they are not my calling. I am still trying to make sense of this world in which I found myself, which is nothing more than a hollow shell of something I once knew intimately. The Commonwealth is no more familiar to me than a stranger wearing the face of an old friend. Every step I take, I think I know where I am going, only to end up horribly lost, and not knowing where to go. The only thing I know is that I have to find Shaun, but what then? I will have my son, but that does not mean that things will make any more sense. I thought perhaps it might, but when I killed Kellogg, the regret that washed over me… I’m a relic of an age long since passed. The only reason I am even alive is because of technology is the hands of someone who should not have been trusted with such devices, and I don’t even know why _I_ was the only one to walk away from Vault 111.”

Her hands grip the railing so tight her knuckles have gone white.

“I shouldn’t have survived,” she says in a hoarse whisper, sounding as horrified by the idea as Maxson is that she would even think such a thing. “I should have died in that Vault with Nate.”

“Then,” he says slowly, “who would be here to rescue Shaun?”

She swallows, hard, and tears begin to pool in her emerald eyes. She closes her eyes in a desperate, fervent attempt to hold them back. “That doesn’t change a thing.”

“Doesn’t it? No one would have known that Shaun was being kept in the Institute if you hadn’t managed to survive. No one would have managed to bring the Minutemen back from the ashes if you hadn’t done so.” He pauses. “No one would have been able to convince me to ally the Brotherhood with anyone that wasn’t already with us.”

There is a slight tremor to Ridley, a shaking that she cannot hide as much as she tries to, but every breath she takes is a little deeper, a little more even than it had been minutes earlier. “You’re awfully good at this, you know.”

“Truthfully?” he says with a bitter laugh. “I’m not. I’m only repeating what was said to me when someone I cared for died, and I asked why I had lived and she had not.”

“Was she someone you loved?”

He does not hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then you know how it feels like it will tear you to fucking pieces; a pain that’s so goddamn consuming it eclipses everything else, and no reassurances will change that.”

He doesn’t realise that he had moved closer to her until he looks away from the window of the deck, and notices that the tip of his nose almost brushes her damp hair. There’s something undeniably foreign about her scent, like flowers that have not grown since the Great War—like a relic from a forgotten time. She glances up at him as his breath hitches in his throat, but he daren’t step back now lest he draw attention to their close proximity. “Yes,” he says again, “but I know that even if you don’t appreciate my words now, you will when you look back on this day in five years.”

“W-why…” she stammers, voice hoarse. He doesn’t know if it’s because she’s noticed how he’s close enough to touch, or if it’s because of her grief. “Why are you so kind to me?” she says, trying again. “I’m a stranger. An outsider, as you said. There’s no reason for you… for you…” She trails off.

“Because I’ve been where you are, Eleanor.” She takes his breath away, and with every passing minute he spends with her, the less he sees of Sarah, and the more he sees of the terrified Vault Dweller trying her damndest to make sense of a world gone mad. “And as your Elder, I care about you.”

“I have seen people in positions of power not give a single shit about people like me,” she says. “This isn’t about you being my Elder.”

“You’re right,” he admits after a long pause, glancing briefly at her parted lips before meeting her eyes again. “It’s not.”

She looks as though she wants to say something, but quickly snaps her mouth shut. “Thank you, sir,” she says, and this time it is _her_ formality that makes _him_ grimace. “I won’t take up much more of your time. I think I might leave for the Glowing Sea in the morning, after all.”

She tucks her hair behind her ears, shoving her hands into her pockets as she marches out of the room without waiting to be dismissed, leaving him in silence save for his thoughts, and the dull wind howling outside. It’s only when she’s already left the next morning that he notices her wedding band glittering on the floor of the observation deck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Subtle with my symbolism? _Never_. 
> 
> So, I realise this is almost definitely a self-indulgent fic, because I've got a thing for Bethesda characters who are unromanceable (looking at you there, Ulfric Stormcloak), but if you're enjoying this, feel free to drop a kudos or a comment (or both! You won't hear me complaining.) And if you're just here for the smut, you've uhhh got the better part of three chapters to go. Sorry not sorry.


	8. Chapter Eight

Arthur hasn’t had very many opportunities to go out in the field since he was appointed Elder. His job requires him to stay near the Prydwen, to be available at a moment’s notice. His trip to the Castle had been the first time he’d had gone somewhere of his own volition for a long time. Hell, his power armour hasn’t seen daylight in a long, long time. He used to feel at home aboard the Prydwen, but ever since arriving in the Commonwealth, the Prydwen’s been nothing but suffocating.

And Ridley is like a breath of fresh air.

He braces his head in his hands, staring down at the surface of the table, through his fingers he sees that Ridley’s wedding band sits on his nightstand where he used to keep Sarah’s brooch. The General and Paladin Danse have been gone for nearly a week, and their radio has been completely silent the entire time. He had briefly considered sending a rescue team after them, but within hours of the thought crossing his mind, he had received a message from Ridley’s Pip-Boy. The message had been pretty clear.

> Don’t know when we will be back. Probably not for a while. Progress is substantial. Will update in person. The Minutemen thank the Brotherhood for their help.
> 
>                             – R

The words sound so stiff and unfamiliar that they might as well have been written by someone else. Had she not signed her initial, he might have thought it had been a report from Danse. Short, succinct, and to the point is his style, not Ridley’s. She rarely ever speaks in anything but long, winded tangents.

He does not know if she would even receive his response, should he send one, but he does not dare do such a thing. He had been a fool to have let the night of her return from the Fort to go so far. Sometimes, he forgets his own youth. He forgets that his childhood is a dream that had never come to pass, filled instead with drills meant for boys twice his age, and that his toys had been cobbled together from pieces of scrap. He forgets that he spent the first half of his life locked within the walls of the Citadel, forbidden from stepping one foot out into the wastelands without armed escorts accompanying him.

And sometimes, he forgets that he cannot remember his parents’ faces.

The Salisbury steak a squire had delivered him hours ago has long since gone cold, dark gravy long since congealed.  He pokes at it unenthusiastically with his knife, pushing it around the metal plate. If Ingram finds out that he hasn’t been eating, he knows she’ll storm into his rooms with the grace of a dozen Deathclaws. He doesn’t need her to remind him that the Brotherhood is nothing without him. This chapter will fail without him, and what will happen to the rest of the Brotherhood? Should the last Maxson fall, will it all soon follow? The Codex says nothing of his potential to fail, but there are verses that have been in the Codex since the days of Roger Maxson—verses not even the Scribes know the true meaning of. Arthur had memorized every line of the damn thing, forced to endure countless lessons as a child in a classroom all by himself, as the Head Scribe personally tutored him.

_“In the heat of the hottest fire, the last son’s soul is forged from eternal steel. He will unite the Forgotten with the Remembered, and the Remembered with the Forgotten. With gold and steel, under a banner of a sword lit by lightning, he will usher in a new dawn,” Head Scribe Rothchild recited without as much as a glance towards his notes. His piercing eyes meet Arthur’s. “That means you, child.”_

He wonders sometimes what it would be like to not carry the Maxson name. He could be a knight, or perhaps even a scribe, and they would know him as Arthur. In the past month, only two people have used his name, and one of them is Ingram. The other… The other, he remembers with a grimace, is Ridley.

Maxson tells himself that that’s the only reason he’s grown close to her so quickly. She has little care for his rank, respecting him for his beliefs, rather than because he’s her superior. That isn’t to say that there aren’t those in the Brotherhood who don’t respect his values, but she hasn’t sworn the Oath of Fraternity. For all intents and purposes, she owes him no loyalty beyond that which she wishes to give. His men are bound to him, and while his alliance with the Minutemen have created somewhat of a bond, Ridley will not be constrained by such simple things.

But, thinks Arthur, it has been a long time since anyone’s see him as a person, rather than the Elder.

He wonders if it is her rank that is what causes her to ignore his own. He is feared by the people of the Commonwealth, and admired by the Brotherhood. She is feared by the Brotherhood, but admired by the people of the Commonwealth. They are two side of the same coin, both working to achieve one goal in two different ways.

He can hear Sarah chastising him like she had so many times when he was a child. _“You’re getting sentimental,”_ she warns. _“That’s dangerous.”_

He closes his eyes, and it’s like she’s standing in the room with him. Her lips pursed as always, but her blue eyes shining with amusement. As much as she had reprimanded him as a Sentinel, he had always been her lifelong friend. “I know,” he says to the open air, knowing when he opens his eyes, she won’t be standing there.

But he can almost feel the weight of her hand on his shoulder, can almost smell the power armour grease that always stained her hands from hours spent in the shop. _“Be careful,”_ she says, softly, and he realises that he has started to forget the sound of her voice.

His eyes fly open as a rapid succession of knocks sound on the door, and in that same instant, Sarah disappears. It’s almost midnight, and all members aboard the Prydwen are under strict orders to obey the curfew that had started two hours earlier unless they have a valid excuse. Not to mention to avoid disturbing him unless they had spoken to Kells.

And Kells’ knocking wasn’t nearly that gentle. He has been woken too many times by the man’s loud pounding on his door.

Perhaps it’s the squire that never came to pick up his unfinished dinner.

 Arthur grabs the tray of Salisbury steak, holding it in one hand as he opens the door with the other. “You’re were supposed to pick this up hours ago,” he says before his eyes register who it is that is standing before him.

“Was I? I didn’t know.” says Ridley with a nervous laugh, attempting to make light of the situation. But he can see through her. She cannot hide the purple bags under her eyes, or the slight tremor in her hands even as she wrings them, or the muddy footprints that track back and forth in front of his door where she had seemingly paced for minutes, questioning whether or not she should knock.

“Eleanor?” Her name slips from his lips accidentally, so startled by her sudden appearance that he loses control for a split second. She is dressed in her usual, gaudy clash of navy and orange, Minuteman coat thrown casually over her orange flight suit.

“Arthur,” she replies, flashing a shaky, tight-lipped smile.

He frowns in confusion, setting the tray down on his dresser. “You said you weren’t going to be back for a while.”

“Things went smoother than I expected,” she says. “I didn’t expect to be back for another couple weeks, but Danse and I caught a vertibird right as we were leaving the Glowing Sea, and it cut down on travel time significantly. After that, it was just a matter of luck.”

His frown deepens. “You’re not making much sense.” He wants to say that she looks nervous, but he bites his tongue.

She ignores the clear prompt to explain her presence on the Prydwen, instead rummaging around in the depths of her pockets. As exhausted as she is, her eyes light up when she pulls out a small mess of circuitry and wires from her pockets. Some of the wires, he notices, are covered in blood. “ _Look_ ,” she says, managing to summon enough energy to resemble an excited child. “It’s a Courser chip.”

He almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You stole that from a _Courser_?” he hisses, his anger clearly not the reaction she had been expecting. Ridley flinches. “What were you thinking? Tell me you bought that off of someone, and didn’t go chasing down a Courser.”

He doesn’t know why he’s so concerned for her safety. Coursers are the biggest threat the Institute has to throw at them. Highly trained, highly armoured, highly skilled, and highly _dangerous_ , he has lost many a good man to synth Coursers.

“I can handle myself, I have you know,” she says, appearing almost insulted. “And no, I tracked down a Courser. This,” Ridley holds the chip higher, “contains everything that makes a Courser a Courser. Including how to use the Institute’s relay system. And we need to decode it.”

“Have you gone _mad_? You could have been hurt.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” she snaps, earning the attention of several knights doing their rounds. Questioningly, the knights look to their Elder.

He doesn’t pay them any attention, merely pulling the General into his quarters, and slamming the door shut behind them. It distracts her momentarily as she takes in his private room. It’s nowhere near as extravagantly decorated as her quarters at the Castle, but it’s more than sufficient. For the better part of his life, he had either bunked with his brothers and sisters, or with the Lyonses. The space is as clean as Ridley’s room is messy. While her quarters had been filled with old magazines, and comics, as well as empty bottles of liquor, his are almost empty. Everything he owns is contained within several bags by the door, never having been unpacked since he moved onto the Prydwen. If it were not for the tray of cold Salisbury steak, and the few bottles of vodka sitting next to a half-full ash tray, it would almost appear like no one lived here.

He’s certain she notices by the way her lips twitch as she fights back a smile, but she says nothing about it. “Inviting a subordinate into your quarters? My, my, you really have no care for the rules about fraternization, now do you, Elder?”

“Since when do you care about the Brotherhood’s rules?”

“Since I joined, of course,” she says, lying through her teeth. She frowns suddenly, pushing past him. “Is that my ring? I thought I lost it on my way to the Glowing Sea.”

“You dropped it the night you left,” Arthur mumbles. “I thought you might want it back.”

She turns the golden band over in her hand, untarnished by the touches of time. It’s a relic from the Old World, just as preserved as she is. “Thank you.” She speaks almost in a whisper as she slips it into her pocket, out of sight. “It was Nate’s.”

He nods, sharp and curt, before getting back to the matter at hand. “Knight Ridley, I’m aware that it’s late, and you must be tired, so let us make this quick. How will the Courser chip help us? It has information on it, but the scribes have been unable to decode it, before you ask. We’ve tried before, when we were looking at getting in through the Institute’s back door.”

“Well the Minutemen don’t have the means to decode it, so we have to think of something. There has to be someone who knows synths well enough to understand how to break this thing.”

They come to the same conclusion within seconds of each other.

“Absolutely not,” Ridley says just as he opens his mouth. “We’re not doing that. No.”

“You need not join them to get their assistance.”

“I will _not_ use them for anything. Not even this.”

“You were more than willing to use the Brotherhood for help, even if you don’t agree with us.”

“That’s not the point!” Ridley exclaims, kicking at the ground like a petulant child. “You’re a known force. The Railroad—”

“Is your only option,” Maxson finishes with a sigh. “You need to find them, or must I order you to?”

“I _dare_ you, Maxson,” she hisses, “to try to order me.”

“Then save us both the hassle, and talk to the Railroad.”

“I don’t even know how to find them! I know that they find you, you don’t find them, but I don’t even know where they look for—” She cuts herself off, eyes widening. “Actually… Hancock was complaining the other day that the Railroad was leaving holodisks all over Goodneighbour in an attempt to get people interested so they could be recruited.”

He tries not to scowl at the mention of the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbour. He recognises that he is her friend, even if he isn’t one of his own.  “Then it looks like you’re going to Goodneighbour.” Ridley nods, pocketing the Courser chip. He can’t stop himself. It’s an act of pure impulse, driven by something he does not quite understand. “And I’m coming with you.”

She freezes, her hand resting on the doorknob. “Won’t they recognise you?” It isn’t quite a protest.

“Then let them think the Brotherhood wants a truce.”

“ _Does_ the Brotherhood want a truce?”

He smiles. “No.”

She struggles to keep a straight face herself, her lips twitching in amusement. “Well, I won’t turn down help,” she says, inclining her head in something akin to a half-hearted bow. “Find me at the Third Rail at your earliest convenience.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't intending on posting this until tomorrow, but we're officially building up to what I know a lot of you guys have been waiting for, and I couldn't control myself. Flirting? While pretending to be in disguise? _Sign me up._

Goodneighbour is the polar opposite to Diamond City. While the Great Green Jewel of the South is bright, and colourful, the emerald stands which give the city its name lit at all times, Goodneighbour is little more than a dilapidated collection of buildings surrounded by a wall. Its population consists of those who weren’t good enough, weren’t rich enough, weren’t _human_ enough for the mayor of Diamond City. It’s dark, and grimy, and under the cover of night, the town is cast in a shadow that is only broken by flickering neon signs. There isn’t a soul here who can be trusted. Cutthroats, and thieves make up the life blood of this town, but hopefully amongst them, they will find the person they’re looking for.

Located out of an old subway station, the Third Rail isn’t much better than the rest of Goodneighbour, but there is something undeniably alluring about the shady establishment. Perhaps it is the dark haired Magnolia crooning her tunes into a microphone in the corner of the bar. Or perhaps it is the customers who speak in whispers, and ask no questions about strangers. Here anonymity isn’t nearly as important as privacy. Intrude a little too much into someone else’s business, and one might end up losing a tongue. Or an eye. Or their life.

He scans the crowd with a watchful eye, trying to tell if there is anyone hiding here who should not be. He knows that the Railroad is better than that. Their agents have managed to avoid both the Brotherhood and the Minutemen, and they haven’t done so by being loud, and ostentatious.

“Whiskey,” he tells the Mr Handy functioning as a bar tender. He slides over several caps before he is prompted to do so. “Neat.”

The Mr Handy mumbles something under its breath about the increasing rudeness of the Rail’s clientele, but it falls on deaf ears. A moment later, a clouded glass full of whiskey slides across the bar, but as he reaches to pick it up, a hand with holding a lit cigarette between two slender fingers wraps around the glass. He watches, mouth dry, as the newcomer lifts it to her mouth, and swallows its contents in one go.

“Why, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” He had thought Eleanor had looked odd without her Minuteman coat, but the black suit and tie she sports fits her perfectly, as though tailored to her body. Her golden hair falls in loose, soft curls around her face, drawing attention to her glittering eyes. She looks like she belongs here, in the criminal underworld. It’s been three days since they had agreed to this—three days since she had set off on her own, and asked him to meet her here. He had half expected to not be able to find her. “Your first time?”

Arthur swallows, watching as she raises her cigarette to her lips, and takes a long drag. “I suppose you could say that.”

She cannot hide her pleasure as he plays along with whatever intricate ruse she’s set up. “Then let me treat you to a drink. Charlie?” She taps on the bar to get the Mr Handy’s attention. “Full bottle of your finest whiskey, and two glasses.” She snatches the whiskey out of the robot’s grip before it can begin to complain, shooing it off to tend to the other waiting customers. Eleanor pours them both a generous glass. “Then let me welcome to the Third Rail, Mr…?”

“Jonathan.” It is— _it was_ his father’s name. His voice comes out deeper than he had intended it to, cracking as he takes in the sight of the pre-war woman standing before him. She looks like she should be standing on the stage next to Magnolia, not leaning against the bar as though it is the only thing supporting her weight, holding a burning cigarette between two fingers. There’s something entrancing about her nonchalance, like this isn’t even an act for her.

“Alex,” Eleanor supplies in return, drawing out her name so he can clearly see her crimson painted lips curl around every syllable. “A pleasure. I was just starting to get bored of the local… scenery.”

They both know that her words hold another meaning. It takes him a moment, but he does not remain stunned for long. If this is the game that she wishes to play, then he shall play it. He is highly competitive by nature, and if she thinks that her little act will get him to break, she is sorely mistaken. There are other ways they could make it seem like they belong here, a dozen other covers they could have used, but the trap has been set, and he has already been baited into it.

Normally, he feels vulnerable without the weight of his armoured coat, and the familiar tightness of his flight suit. But that vulnerability is not present. Hell, it’s all but flown out the window. He pushes the sleeves of his dark shirt up to his elbows, raising a brow. “I’ve learned that finding a new source of entertainment is always the best cure for a bout of boredom.”

She does not flush like he has come to expect her to, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. Looking for entertainment. Magnolia’s an excellent singer. It keeps the mind distracted. Besides, I know the owner, and he lets me have all the free drinks I want. Feel free to help yourself.”

He can’t help but laugh at that, letting out a low, breathy chuckle as he shakes his head. “Yes, the music is thoroughly captivating, but I find myself easily distracted by other things.” _That_ makes her flush, and he smiles into his glass as he raises it to his lips. For the Third Rail’s finest whiskey, the taste is rather abysmal, comparable to acetone even, but once the first sip burns its way down his throat, the following sips hurt less to swallow. He supposes people don’t come to the Third Rail to enjoy quality alcohol. They come to drink in order to forget, or they come for the company.

And if he falls into a category, it certainly isn’t the former.

“You… come here often?” he asks, more and more people filing into the bar as the night begins to set in. It’s a lame line, and by the raising of her brows, it doesn’t escape her notice.

“Often enough,” she says, leaning in close to him to pour herself another drink. And then, in a whisper: “Maxson, we’ll have to keep this up until we find the Railroad. If you want out, this is your last chance.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

She snorts, still watching over his shoulder to ensure that no one is listening in to their conversation. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I used to do anything necessary to win a case.” The words aren’t all that suggestive, but the glint in her eyes says something else altogether. “But I need your consent now. If you want to leave at any time, I won’t stop you, and I’ll never bring it up again. And after this is all over, we’ll go back to normal, but fitting in around here is a lot different than fitting in out there. You say no, and I’ll go get Mac, or Piper, or even Cait. You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t answer her, not directly, downing the rest of his drink. “I’m not one to back down from a challenge,” he says.

“Neither am I.” She narrows her eyes at him, and he notices that her wedding band is absent. A part of the disguise? Her holotags are missing too, and she doesn’t ever take them off. It’s one part of Brotherhood protocol that she follows, even if she elects to ignore everything else. He can’t even begin to count her many infractions. Violation of the dress code, multiple curfew violations, rarely asking permission to do anything, _countless_ instances of insubordination… She has no care for the Brotherhood’s rules, always walking on the razor’s edge. Anyone else would have been discharged on the first day.

“Tell me,” she says, a little louder this time, and he can’t tell if she’s resumed their charade, or if she’s still asking his permission to continue. “Do you ever let yourself lose control?”

Arthur doesn’t hesitate, meeting her defiant gaze. “Do you?”

“Never.” Her voice comes out a little shaky, and the bravado she sports slips for a moment before it snaps back into place. “Why?”

Eleanor is not someone who follows complacently. He had recognised that when they’d first met on the Prydwen. Nobody willing to let someone else take the lead would be willing to smuggle themselves into enemy territory, and demand an audience with the man in charge.

He runs his thumb around the lip of the glass, finger coming back wet with traces of whiskey. She watches in silence as he lifts it to his lip, tongue darting out to wipe off a bead of amber liquid. “I think I should like to watch you lose control. I suspect that it would be quite the sight,” he says flippantly, watching in amusement as her breath hitches in her throat. He does enjoy toying with her, getting her riled up. He’s just as stubborn as she is.

And if anyone’s losing control, it’s not going to be him.

He wonders if he has pushed it too far, as he had that night on the observation deck after Fort Strong. To the Commonwealth, her husband’s been dead for years—ten, had Danse said?—but to Eleanor, it’s been a matter of months. He shouldn’t be testing her, but it’s like he can’t help himself. There’s something about her that draws him in. Perhaps it’s the way she gets under his skin, with her blatant disregard for the things expected of her.

 _Or perhaps,_ comes a nagging voice that sounds suspiciously like Ingram’s, _it’s because she reminds you of Sarah._

“Yes,” Eleanor murmurs, grinding out her cigarette in a dirty ashtray. “I think you would.”

Her gaze drift away from him, scanning the crowd for a sign of anyone suspicious. He had almost forgotten that they are here on business, searching for the Railroad agents who must be hiding in the town to reap the rewards of their recruitment tapes. He doesn’t dare look with her, lest it become obvious that they do not belong here. Eleanor draws enough attention for the two of them; the Vault Dweller looks like she’s stepped out of the pages of some pre-War advertisement, with her crimson lips, curled hair, and the heady scent of perfume and cigarette smoke that hangs about her.

Magnolia steps back on to the stage after a short break to a smattering of applause, Eleanor joining in if only to seem a part of the crowd.

“So, Jonathan,” the Vault Dweller says, a brow raised. “A scar as large as that one has to have a story behind it.”

He’s been asked about the scar running the length of his face more times than he cares to count, and each time, he comes with an increasingly more unbelievable story. His past is none of his men’s business. But even if Eleanor is officially a knight, she certainly isn’t _his_. “It’s a long story.”

The Third Rail’s resident singer is oblivious to the conversation he and Eleanor are in the midst of, but her eyes lock with the Elder over Eleanor’s shoulder. She winks at him without missing a beat of the song. “ _Have you got a history that needs erasing? Did you come in just for the beer and cigarettes?_ ”

Eleanor leans back on the stool, one leg crossed over the other. “I’ve got time.”

“ _A broken down dream you’re tired of chasing,_ ” continues Magnolia. “ _Oh, well I’m just the girl to make you forget._ ”

Arthur turns back towards the woman sitting in front of him, her hands resting on her knee. “And not particularly interesting.”

She shrugs, and pulls out another cigarette from her jacket’s inner pocket. He had thought himself bad, indulging in a cigar once every couple of days. She’s halfway to being a chain smoker. “I told you, I’m here for the entertainment, not for the conversation.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “I was thirteen, and I thought I was a better fighter than I really was. I wandered out into the wastelands—ran away from home, really—armed with nothing but a laser rifle, and a few dozen fusion cells in my pocket. I stumbled across a small settlement full of nothing but unarmed farmers who didn’t even know how to hold a gun let alone shoot one, and decided to stay the night. The next thing I knew, the settlement was under attack.”

“Oh God.”

“It gets worse,” he assures. “In came charging in a roaring Deathclaw matriarch. As it turns out, the settlers had hired a group of mercs to wipe out both her and her nest several weeks earlier. The mercs destroyed the nest, and told the settlers that the Deathclaw was dead, but really…”

Eleanor hides her face in her hands, groaning. “I’ve killed Deathclaws before while armed to the teeth, and I had a hard time. You went after it with nothing but a laser rifle?”

“I told you, I was an overconfident thirteen year old. Halfway through the fight though, I ran out of ammo, and I froze. The Deathclaw saw the opening, and leapt on me. Pinned me to the ground, her claw almost taking out my eye.” He pauses, reaching over the bar to grab a Nuka-Cola Cherry. He pops it open on the edge of the counter, taking a sip before he continues his story. “On my tenth birthday, a girl I once knew,” _Sarah,_ “gave me a knife as a gift. I carried it with me every day—I still do. I was half blinded by the blood pouring down my face, but there isn’t a whole lot a man won’t do when he thinks he’s going to die. I grabbed the knife, and plunged it right between the damned thing’s ribs. Almost got crushed to death when the body fell down on me.”

“Clearly you didn’t.”

“Clearly,” he agrees. “Somehow, the settlers rolled the body off of me, and I spent the next week recovering in this dilapidated shack of a barn, but when I woke, the settlers praised me a hero, and I had this lovely scar to show for it.”

“Most men wouldn’t be able to take on a Deathclaw even armed with a Fat Man,” Eleanor says wryly. She glances at the Pip-Boy on her wrist. “It’s getting late. I’ve got a room at Hotel Rexford if you want to join me for some more… entertainment.” Once again, she leans in close so she won’t be overheard. “The bar’s getting empty. We won’t find the Railroad tonight. We should try again tomorrow.”

A part of him wishes that they had met for the first time in this bar, that her request is genuine, and not another part of their alibi. He can imagine her lips pressed against his with far too much clarity; the taste of whiskey and cigarettes on her tongue, and cherry cola on his own. Her scent of flowery perfume, rather than the bitter, sharp smell of the Brotherhood issued soap. He almost wants to press her against the bar, and kiss her right there.

 _Fuck_ , he says to himself, cursing his thoughts. Maxsons don’t have the luxury of such carefree flings, and he knows a fling is the only kind of relationship the mourning widow can bring herself to be a part of. He is expected to find a wife, to find a woman who will behave, and act as according to the Brotherhood’s rules.

He is expected to find someone to bear him a child.

Eleanor is already a mother, and she _was_ a wife. She still searches for her child, still mourns the death of Nate. Her loyalties lie with the Minutemen, not with the Brotherhood, and she couldn’t give less of a damn about the Brotherhood’s rules. She is not someone the other Elders would approve of, not the picture perfect, domestic housewife any respectable Elder should want. She can’t be Mrs Arthur Maxson for all of these reasons.

But when he looks down at her bare hands—usually adorned with both her own, and her husband’s wedding bands—he can’t help wonder what it would be like to have his mother’s ring sitting around her finger.

She is still waiting for answer, but he can’t bring himself to say anything.

Ridley is nothing more than a friend, he tells himself. A subordinate, by all means, and his ally. He is not a child, longing for someone he will never have.

_He is not a child, and she is not Sarah._

He realises now it is because she is not Sarah that he’s grown to care for her. She resembles Sarah no more than she resembles the girl on the Nuka World posters, and he does not pine after every young woman with blonde hair and green eyes. There is something else about her. Is it her open defiance? Her reckless bravery? Her commitment to the Minutemen, and the loyalty she shows to her friends?

He should say no. He should stop this now, and return to the Prydwen. He should do anything besides take her hand, and let her lead him to her room because he _knows_ he will want to be real, even if it isn’t.

And then she smiles, and he cannot stop himself from following after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the knife Maxson used to kill the Deathclaw the same knife Sarah used to teach him how to kill a man by stabbing his kidneys? Absolutely, and I'm totally not mentioning this because it's going to be important later.
> 
> I think we all know where we're going via the Hotel. And, honestly, I'm very susceptible to flattery so depending on the reaction to this, I might be forced to post the two part build-up/smut chapters that are next, who knows.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Maxson's a control freak dom pass it on.~~

Hotel Rexford shows signs that it used to be a nice, respectable establishment before the War. The peeling wallpaper, though faded, is clearly patterned with the geometric shapes that had been popular in the late 2070’s. The stained furniture matches, knobs of drawers adorned with golden patterns that had gone cloudy with time. Its residents are of the less savoury sort, but he’s come to expect as much in Goodneighbour, and Eleanor only stops to nod at the woman at the front desk before she’s leading him upstairs.

There’s a slight wobble to the General’s steps, the only sign of the alcohol she had consumed earlier. She drinks too much, Arthur thinks, but it’s not his place to comment on it. He supposes Eleanor has more cause to drink than most. He cannot begin to image what it would be like to wake up after two hundred years, only to learn that everything he had once loved is dead, or gone.

Eleanor leans against the door of her room, struggling with the lock. It’s clear to him that she’s a little too tipsy to see straight. She almost drops the keys, and her face crumples like she’s on the verge of tears when he steps in. He takes the keys from her unsteady hands. A passing stranger with shoots them a sympathetic look, before shaking his head, dark hair falling over his eyes, as he locks himself in his own room.

The Vault Dweller falls into Arthur as the door opens, tripping the only thing keeping her upright swings away from her. She blinks up at him, then glances down at his hands on her forearms. “Thanks,” is all she says, unsteadily making her way into the room.

It’s a decent enough size, and almost seems untouched by the war. A couch is pushed up against the wall across from a squat coffee table, and the queen sized bed in the corner even has blankets and pillows, which is more than most establishments can claim. The desk is covered in Eleanor’s belongings, her personal effects strewn across its surface. A bright blue Vault suit is folded on top of the dresser, and he realises then that he’s never seen her wear it. Most Vault Dwellers wear their suits like a badge of pride. Even Sarah’s Vault Dweller of a girlfriend, Ashley, had worn hers daily, the numbers 101 printed in a bright yellow across her back.

In the few seconds it had taken for Arthur to examine the room, Eleanor had pulled out another pack of smokes, and a bottle of vodka. He quickly steals the vodka from her before she can drink any more. She’ll likely have a slight hangover tomorrow, and they still have work to be done. He cannot stop her from lighting her third cigarette in three hours, and she collapses on the sofa, her head tilted back.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” he says, grimacing at how much he sounds like Cade.

“That was kind of the fucking point,” Eleanor growls around the cigarette pinched between her lips, the crimson lipstick starting to fade. “It’s not happening fast enough for my liking, though. Nate used to hate it when I smoked, and when I got pregnant with Shaun, I quit. But nothing matters now, so who gives a shit?”

He knows her anger isn’t directed towards him, even as she straightens just to glare at him. She’s drunk, and grieving, and for the past three days, she’s been pretending to be someone else. Not Knight Ridley, not the General, not anyone but some random girl blowing in from out of town by the name of Alex. They’re so close to getting into the Institute too, to reuniting Eleanor with her son, but finding the Railroad is taking more time than it should.

But once she has Shaun back, she won’t need to Brotherhood’s assistance anymore. The Minutemen had offered to help the Brotherhood destroy the Institute, but she doesn’t need to be there. She might simply disappear with her son, run off into the Commonwealth’s wastes, never to return again.

Eleanor lets out a heavy breath as she realises what she’d just said, guilt washing over her features. “I’m sorry. That was unworthy of me,” she says. “I’m just tired.”

“And drunk.”

“And drunk,” she agrees, bracing her head in the palm of her hand. “Something about you just makes me… sad.”

He takes a seat on the armchair across from her, brow raised. “I apologise.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says. “You look like him, in the right light. Like Nate. Black hair with the same stupid haircut, and a beard—his was shorter, but still... And the look of a soldier who’s seen enough war to last a lifetime. I almost couldn’t look at you when we first met. I prayed afterwards that you didn’t notice.”

He doesn’t bring up her similarities to Sarah. The longer he knows her, the less he sees it. “I didn’t,” he assures. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes either.

“I know it’s foolish, but I miss him sometimes.”

“Why is it foolish?” Arthur doesn’t understand. “He was your husband.”

She almost drops her cigarette, rubbing at her eyes in exhaustion. “Oh, shit, you don’t know.” He doesn’t need to prompt her for her to explain herself. “Shaun was… an accident. Nate and I were best friends, and one night we got drunk, and… Nate didn’t need to stick around, but he did. When my parents said it our relationship was ‘improper,’ and threatened to have him locked up for ‘violating me,’ and have me sent off to some convent, he married me to get them off my back. I didn’t deserve him, but he was my best friend, and I’ll never be able to pay him back for what he did for me. Shaun’s the only piece of him I have left.”

“We’ll find him,” he promises her. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he’s just taken on her quest as his own. “And the Institute will pay.”

Her lower lip wobbles. “I don’t deserve you either,” she says, and the next thing he knows, she’s crying. She wipes away her tears on the back of her hand. “Why the fuck am I crying? I don’t know why I’m crying. You’re just…”

“Just…?”

“Just… I don’t know. You’re always so confident in what you say, so in control.”

His mind goes back to their conversation at the bar. _“Do you ever let yourself lose control?”_ It had been dark in the Third Rail, the only source of illumination being the few lamps scattered about the former subway station, and the spotlight on Magnolia, but looking back on it, her pupils had almost eclipsed her emerald eyes. He hadn’t noticed then, but her hand had slowly crept towards him on the bar, fingers tapping along to Magnolia’s song.

“I should…” He gestures behind him towards the door. “Speak to the manager, see if they have another room.”

“You can stay, Arthur,” she murmurs, undoing the buttons of her jacket. The tight fitting white shirt she wears underneath covers almost every inch of her skin, but somehow still manages to hide little. The sight makes him choke, and he feels like the collar of his shirt is a little too tight. It isn’t even buttoned up. “There’s no point in wasting caps.”

“Eleanor—”

“Arthur, really, I’m more than capable of being professional. You can have the bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“You might be capable, but I’m not.”

The confession makes her eyes widen. “Ah,” she says, the familiar vermilion creeping up her neck once again. She pushes herself to her feet, her back turned to him so he cannot see her face. The cigarette she’d been smoking is only half finished, but she drops it into an ashtray on the desk regardless, letting it burn itself out. “I see.”

He starts towards the door, shame burning in his chest. It’s one thing to think it, and another to say it out loud. “So if you would excuse me…”

“I don’t believe I gave you permission to leave, Elder.”

Her sudden insolence makes him hesitate, his hand resting on the door. “I don’t believe I need your permission, _Knight_ , to leave,” he says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Her blush deepens into a lovely shade of crimson, and he wonders almost absently just how far down her neck it spreads.

“I suppose you don’t,” she says, and she cannot hide the tremor in her voice.  “You come off as a person who’s used to getting what he wants, but I’m the kind of person who asks for permission to give orders.”

He still hasn’t let go of the doorknob. “Do you get off on being insubordinate, or do you do it just to irritate me?” He doesn’t realise the double meaning of his words until a hollow laugh comes from her.

“Why don’t you try giving me an order, _sir_ ,” She spits his title like it’s an insult, but all it does is make a wave of heat wash over him, “that I want to follow?” Eleanor glances back at him, and she cannot hide the smirk that graces her painted lips.

Arthur is used to being obeyed. Even the other elders trip over their feet to please him. He has the entire Brotherhood under his control, indulging his every whim. Eleanor’s blatant disrespect feels like a slap in the face. He’s put up with it for far too long.

“Stand in the centre of the room,” he commands. She hesitates, and for a moment, he thinks that he’s pushed her too far, that he has no hope in trying to contain the wildfire that is Eleanor Ridley. But then he says, “It wasn’t a request,” and she suddenly snaps to attention, her hands clasped behind her back as she moves to the centre of the room. Her head is held high, but she blinks too rapidly for him to hold her gaze.

Finger by finger, Arthur lets go of the door. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” he asks her, slowly making his way over to the Vault Dweller standing dutifully with her hands behind her back. “At attention, _Knight_.”

Immediately, her hands snap to her side. “I do not,” she answers. A sharp glare has her scrambling to fix her mistake. “I do not, _sir_ ,” she says.

“I am not the only one who recognises your open acts of insubordination, Knight Ridley. My private terminal is full of complaints about your behaviour. Dress code violations, mouthing off, _vulgarity_ , and otherwise complete disregard for the Brotherhood’s rules.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Her shame is damn near thrilling. “Good. You should be,” he says, pacing in a circle around her. Eleanor’s hands are in fists, as they should be, but they’re curled a little tighter than they perhaps should be; her nails dig into her palm, and when he gently unfurls one, little crescent shapes mark the soft skin. “Eleanor.” Arthur’s voice lacks the authority with which he had been speaking moments ago. Her eyes snap up to meet his. “If you want out, this is your last chance. I’m not going to be gentle.”

“I didn’t ask you to be,” she says. “I have been warned about your… proclivities.”

He frowns. “By whom?”

“Danse.”

That bastard. He’d have to have a word with the Paladin when they returned to the Prydwen. “And what did you say in return?”

She inhales shakily, her hands back down by her side, curled into fists. “That it wouldn’t be a problem. That I’m good at following orders when I want to.”

His mouth has gone dry. He’d had his share of casual flings with people who thought a one night stand with the Elder would earn them his favour. It isn’t quite true, but it had earned them enough sympathy from him to get whatever they had wanted out of him. But those were all business.

“I’m not going to break, Arthur,” she almost whispers. “You don’t have to be gentle. In fact, I’d really prefer it if you weren’t.”

He’s half-hard already, and her words aren’t helping. He can barely hear her over the pounding in his ears. Silently, he reaches out, running his thumb over her lower lip, skin coming back stained with what’s left of her lipstick. Her eyelids flutter shut, but he isn’t having any of it. “No. You will look at me the entire time. Is that clear?”

He watches as she swallows, lips pressing together for the briefest of moments. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he croons, and smiling to himself as she shivers at the name. His thumb continues downwards, brushing over her jaw, and then resting over her racing pulse. “So quiet, Knight. For the mouth you normally have, I’d have expected you to be a little more talkative.”

He only laughs as she blushes again, stepping away from her even as she presses into his touch. Arthur doesn’t order her to, but she has enough sense to stay where she is, even as he wanders back over to the armchair, turning it around so it’s facing the centre of the room.

_“Do you ever let yourself lose control?”_

The answer, he can say with absolute certainty, is a resounding, _“No.”_

He settles into the armchair, watching the General of the Minutemen for a long moment as she stands there, biting her lip as she waits patiently. He leans back, fingers drumming on the armrest, and says, “Strip.”


	11. Chapter Eleven [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just... 2.6k of pure smut. That's it. There isn't really any plot.

Eleanor hadn’t been lying when she’d said she was good at following orders when she wanted to. She moves slowly, but she _moves_ , no hesitation in her actions as she slowly begins to peel away the layers of her clothing. It’s almost entrancing, and Arthur can hardly take his eyes away from her. Her jacket and trousers slump to the floor, and she kicks them aside without a second thought, still holding Arthur’s gaze as she had been commanded. Slender fingers begin to work at the buttons of her shirt, and soon it slips from her shoulders.

Her skin is untouched by radiation, lacking the uneven, jagged burns found on most wastelanders. Thin, silvery scars mark her stomach and inner thighs, and she shows no signs of ever having gone hungry. There is a gentle softness to her; a rounded stomach, and thicker legs that are usually hidden by her long coat. She shows signs of having carried a child, and by the way her hands linger over those parts of her, he knows she is self-conscious of it.

But he can barely breathe.

His cock is throbbing, and she glances down at the hitch in his dark pants before looking back up at him as she lets her dirtied white bra fall to the ground.

Arthur doesn’t remember getting to his feet, but his lips suddenly crash against hers, a hand knotted through her blonde hair to keep her close. She tastes like cigarettes and whiskey—a concoction that make his head spin even as she groans against his mouth. He moves further south, teeth and scraggly beard scraping along her skin as he settles to suck at the base of her neck. She bucks into him as his teeth clamp down on the tender skin, her head lolling back to provide him better access.

“I’ve wanted to do that since you left to the Glowing Sea,” he growls, much to her amused laughter which quickly sputters out as he hooks a finger under the elasticated band of her underwear. He finds that she’s positively drenched as he experimentally cups her, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.

“ _Arthur_ ,” she hisses, almost collapsing against his chest. The sound is like heaven to his ears. For too long she has called him Maxson, and her low, throaty warning may as well have been music. Somehow, she manages to pull him away long enough to capture his mouth once again. His hand is still between her legs, and she narrowly misses biting down on his lip as his thumb brushes over her clit. She pulls away, unable to restrain the gasps that fall from her stained mouth as he plunges two fingers into her wet heat.

“Mm,” he hums, not even trying to hide his smirk as he pushes her several steps back against the desk, “I like the way you say that.”

“Narcissist,” comes her reply, and he’s certain she wants to say more, but is cut off by her own moan as he crooks his fingers inside her, slowly and methodically beginning to pump in and out of her. She rests her weight back on her hands, eyes fluttering shut.

He scowls. “I thought I told you to keep your eyes on me.”

“I elected to ignore that order,” she replies, yelping as he uses his free hand to pull her head back by her hair.

“ _No_ ,” he snarls. “You follow my orders, or we stop, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He lets out a mournful sigh, rather disappointed with the direction things have taken. “You were doing so well too, knight, so I’ll forgive you this once. But never again.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says, breathless, as he finally tugs the plain pair of panties off of her. He throws them halfway across the room. She won’t be needing them tonight. He can feel the weight of her eyes on him, her fingers interlaced in his hair, as he moves back down to her soaking cunt. She groans as his beard scrapes against the soft skin of her inner thigh, following the same path as her silvery scars, and the groan grows into a positively _delightful_ cry as his mouth met her folds. “ _Fuck_.”

He should have done this weeks ago.

His tongue sweeps over her clit, and, and it has her coming undone. Her grip in his hair damn near painful, and her legs are squeezed tight around his head as she rides out her orgasm, chest heaving. He lets her have this one moment of control. Even if he’s the one on his knees, his head buried between her thighs, he’s the one who holds the reins. His beard glistens as he breaks away from her, watching as she struggles to catch her breath. Her pupils are so large her eyes almost appear black—Arthur admits that he’s surprised she’d managed to keep her eyes open—and she has bitten her lip so hard she’s drawn blood. 

“Bed or desk?” he asks through gritted teeth, unable to make the decision as she manages to collect herself. He wants to take her on both by morning light, but he doesn’t know where to start. Hell, he hasn’t been able to part from her long enough to strip.

She thinks for a moment. “Bed,” she decides.

“Go on, then.”

“Wait…” Eleanor says, hesitantly glancing up at him to ask for permission as her hands come to rest on his chest. She toys with the button of his shirt, and when he nods, she begins to undo them one by one. It’s been a long time since a woman’s touched him, and even longer since he’s touched on himself. But, fuck, he can still taste her on his lips. She pulls his shirt from his shoulders, and sets it aside on the dresser.

Unlike her, he’s covered in scars. He can’t even begin to count the number of bullet wounds he has. They have faded with time, but they won’t ever really disappear. Another souvenir from his encounter with the Deathclaw shows on his ribcage, one long gash running from side of his chest to the other. He has minor radiation burns on his forearms from when he was stupid enough to venture into an abandoned pre-War laboratory without checking the rad levels inside.

She marvels over each and every single one of them, her touch eliciting shivers as she travels down, pausing only to undo the zipper of his pants, and pull them down to his ankles. His cock is painfully hard in his briefs, jutting out almost proudly from his hips.

“Eleanor,” he gasps as she experimentally palms him, before pulling the fabric down in one fluid motion. A groan escapes him as she takes the head of his flushed cock into her mouth. She pulls it out with a small pop, running her tongue down the length of his shaft.

“I don’t think I could fit all of you in my mouth,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him, wrapping her smaller hand around him, thumbing the slit, and wiping a bead of precum away with her tongue.

“We can test that at a later date,” he manages to spit out, struggling to collect himself as her hand starts to move, and _fuck_ he’s seeing stars. He hooks a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him, smeared lipstick and all. “Right now, the bed.”

She lets out a slightly tipsy giggle and falls onto the bed. “How do you want me, sir?”

There’s all sorts of ways he can think of responding. The possibilities are damn near endless, but if doesn’t get in her soon, he’ll spill his seed on the wooden floors, and miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he’s been presented with. “On your back,” he says, and for once in her life, she doesn’t argue with his orders.

He kisses her like he is starving for her, and he can taste the salty tang of his own precum on her tongue, mixed in with cigarettes and whiskey. She will be the death of him. She will be his undoing. Her breasts heave with every breath of air she takes, rock hard nipples brushing his scarred chest as he props himself atop her with one hand, the other clumsily stroking his cock. He lines himself up, and—

And he hesitates. “Eleanor,” Arthur says worryingly. “Are you sure about this?”

He knows the risks of this, knows that there were means of preventing such things pre-War, but they are commodities now, and cost an arm and a leg to purchase. Even if she isn’t the picture perfect woman the Western Elders want for him, they would be overjoyed to have a future Maxson heir. Arthur would like for nothing more than to have her carry his child, to see her swell with something they had made together, but he doesn’t know what she wants. She has a child, she had a husband, even if she hadn’t quite loved him. With wastelanders, the risks were understood, and he didn’t need to explain them.

But to the Vault Dweller pinned underneath him, her hair spread out around her head like a halo, things were different.

She doesn’t quite provide an answer, snapping her hips up against him, and he’s sheathed inside her in a moment. He groans. He has spent every night since she’d left to the Glowing Sea thinking about this, always telling himself that he was picturing Sarah underneath him, but every time, Sarah had bright green eyes, and he knows he hadn’t been thinking of the former Elder.

 Eleanor takes a moment to adjust to him, bringing him down for another, messy kiss a moment later. “Yes,” she says against his lips.

Arthur _snaps_. A hand finds the pale column of her throat, applying a gentle pressure to keep her pinned to the mattress as he sets a brutal rhythm, other hand rubbing quick, fast circles across her swollen clit. He buries himself to the hilt inside her, his breath hitching every time she convulses around him.

“You’ve been holding yourself back,” he snarls into the purple blossoming across her skin where he’d bitten it earlier. Her hands claw at his back, desperately trying to find a purchase. He lets go of her throat only to grab her wrists, pinning them above her head to the headboard. He almost wishes he’d brought some rope.

She doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yes,” she moans, pressing her head back into the mattress as he begins to move faster. “I have. D-Danse,” His grip tightens on her wrists as she mentions the Paladin by name. “He told me to be careful.”

“He needs to stay out of my private life,” Arthur mutters, appreciating the concern his long-time friend has Eleanor, but he can’t help but wonder how much sooner he could have been doing this if the Paladin had left them to their own devices. “Is nothing about my privacy sacred to him?”

Eleanor finds the composure to laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of him.”

“You spend _far_ too much time around him for me not to be,” he says, earning another bout of laughter. “But I’ll think of this the next time he watches you a little too closely.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says, quickly silenced as he captures her swollen lips in another kiss. She presses her body against him as his pace because quickly more and more erratic. He isn’t going to make it much longer. Heat burns in his abdomen, driving him forward with need as she writhes beneath him. Her body will be marked with bruises tomorrow; teeth marks across her neck, and fingerprints on her hips and wrists.

The thought of Danse seeing the bruises makes him groan.

Eleanor lets out a gasp as she comes, contracting around his member, and it pushes Arthur over the edge. He drives himself once more into her core as he spills deep inside her, exhausting overtaking him as pleasure washes over him in waves. They are both covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and the smell of sex hangs heavy in the air. He falls onto the bed alongside her, both struggling to tame their racing hearts.

The woman buries her head in the crook of Arthur’s arm, chest heaving. “Jesus Christ, Maxson,” she says with an exhausted laugh.

“Mm, I think after that, you have my full permission to use my first name from now on.”

They are silent for several minutes, both thinking of the same question, but neither able to summon enough courage to ask it. “So what does this make us now?”

It is Eleanor who decides to ask it, and even in the dim light of the room, he can make out the furrow of her brows. She’s not very good at hiding her emotions. They are a part of her, just as much as his need for control is a part of him. Ingram once told him that he’s almost as bad as Danse when it comes to admitting to his feelings. Eleanor balances him out; she is reckless, and headstrong, and ruled by her emotions, and he is calculated, reserved, and he knows where to draw the line.

She takes his silence as a response, and fills the quiet.

“I won’t hold it against you if you want to pretend this never happened,” she says, but the cracking of her voice gives away the pain she feels at the idea. “If you want to go back to normal.”

“Is that what you want?”

She turns away from him, her face obscured in shadow. Then: “No.”

He shouldn’t want her. He should want someone devoted to him, not to something else. He should want a picture perfect housewife, ready to serve him at a moment’s notice. She is vulgar, and crass, and has no care for her own safety. She’s disrespectful, insolent, and insubordinate, and she’s more trouble than she’s worth.

He shouldn’t want her.

But god _dammit_ , does he want her anyway.

“Good,” he admits a moment later. “I don’t want that either.”

A relieved breath escapes her in the dark, and she leans into his embrace, her hand resting against his bare chest, tracing the outlines of his scars. Eleanor props herself up onto an elbow, hair brushed to one side. Her makeup is smeared everywhere, but there’s something undeniably attractive about knowing that he’s made such a mess of her. She’s just as much of a control freak as she is, only willing to relinquish her control to his capable hands. This is the first time he’s seen her as anything lest that put together. “The Brotherhood will talk,” she says.

He reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear, hesitating as he pulls away. “Let them,” Arthur says. “I think they’ll find I couldn’t give less of a damn.”

She laughs, pressing her lips to the centre of his palm. “And here I was, worried for no reason,” she says, falling back alongside him, her head leaning against his chest.

He doesn’t fall asleep until she does, running his hand through her golden hair absentmindedly. There’s still a lot more to do—they’ve yet to find the Railroad, yet to secure a way into the Institute, yet to save Shaun, yet to _destroy_ the Institute and its synths—but in this moment, Arthur lets himself forget all about that. And when he falls asleep, it’s to the sound of Eleanor’s breathing.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta balance that porn with that plot, am I right?

He wakes to an empty bed, sheets pushed back and crumpled where Eleanor had slept beside him. The sun has started to peek out over the horizon, rays shining through the cracks between the boards over the windows. Groggily, he rubs at his eyes. A part of him fears that she’s run off in the night, unable to face what they had done the night before.

“Good morning.” He’s almost relieved to hear Eleanor’s soft voice. The bed sinks under her weight as she perches on the edge. “Do you want some coffee? I managed to get Hancock to run out with me to buy some.”

He takes the proffered cup gratefully, the warmth seeping into his hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” she says, and he notices that her hair is still damp. The scent of flowers is almost intoxicating. “And I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I thought you might have left in the night.”

“I admit that I considered it,” she says quietly, looking down at her bare hands. She’s lost the suit from the previous night, now dressed in a simple t-shirt, and a pair of forest green pants. But her rings are still missing. “I was afraid that you were lying about not caring if the Brotherhood talked. That you would want me to leave.”

He had frozen at her words, but softens at her explanation. “I don’t want that,” he says, taking a sip from the coffee. It’s a little bitterer than he’s used to.

“I know. You’re not exactly subtle about what you want,” Eleanor says. Her lips purse as she ducks her head, and there’s a dark mark where her neck meets her shoulder. “But I’m not complaining. It was nice to feel wanted, even for a short while.”

“It doesn’t just have to be for a short while,” Arthur murmurs, running his forefinger over the purple stain on her skin. She shivers under his touch, leaning into his palm, and he pulls her down into a coffee-flavoured kiss that steals his breath away. Her comment about the Brotherhood has his thinking. “Eleanor, I have to ask about the Minutemen—” he starts, breaking the kiss.

She cannot contain her sigh. “They’re going to throw a fit, I just know it. It was difficult enough to get them to agree to an alliance. Ronnie will bitch and moan about how we can’t trust the Brotherhood, how you’re ‘outsiders’ who ‘want nothing more than to exploit us.’ She’ll threaten to leave again, and I won’t be surprised if she takes some of my men with her. I don’t think I’ll try to get her to stay, even if it’ll take us weeks, perhaps months to make up for the losses.”

He doesn’t want to take his words back from last night, because they’re true. He doesn’t want to go back to normal, to pretend that last night hadn’t happened. He knows what they will say. They will compare her to Sarah; to a woman so radiant that she eclipses everything else.

Eleanor has a habit of keeping her grief to herself, as though she is to blame for the misfortunes that have befallen her. She would rather lie than to share her burdens with others, and he knows that she’s making light of the situation with Ronnie. It is unlikely that the Minutemen will ever recover from such a conflict. Stories say that love conquers all boundaries, but he knows from experience when he says that people like them don’t get such luxuries.

“Perhaps it would be for the best to spare you that, then.” It pains him physically to say the words, hurting even more than the Deathclaw attack that had left him with the scar over his right eye. But if she cares about the Minutemen even half as much as he cares about the Brotherhood— _and he knows that she does, that she would go to the ends of the Earth and back just to lead them out of the dark_ —then he would be a selfish fool to ask her to put him above them. She would not ask him to put her above the Brotherhood. “As well as the Western Elders’ ire, should they learn that I’ve taken an outsider as my own.”

She cannot bring herself to look him in the eyes, pulling back so she is just out of reach. It is never wise,” she says, and when she speaks, her voice is strong, and cold, “to mix business with pleasure.”

It isn’t quite true. Many an alliance has been secured by marriage, but those marriages were borne of a need for heirs, and Eleanor, he knows, is in no rush to sire another child after losing one such a short time ago. This isn’t what either of them want, but they’ve no choice in the matter. Flights of fancy are reserved to those who do not carry the weight of an entire nation on their shoulders.

She gets to her feet, her wet hair falling over her bruised neck. The marks of his affections only serve as a painful reminder of a future they both know will never come to pass. To anyone else, she would appear indifferent. Her stony countenance gives nothing away, and her voice is as cold as ice. She is the picture perfect General of the Minutemen, composed and proud. The only sign of any emotion she shows is the shaking of her hands which she cannot hide, even as she curls them into tight fists by her side.

She is a proud woman above all else, and he cannot read the small, short flashes of emotions that flit across her face as they break through her composure. Eleanor stares at him for a long moment, with the same forlornness that Sarah had worn when he had last seen her.

_Sarah’s blood coated his hands, staining her suit of power armour crimson as her head rested in his lap. “Arthur,” she sighed, reaching up to touch the side of his face with a trembling touch. “Say goodbye to her for me. Tell her I’m going home.”_

 He almost retches in his mouth at the memory. He can still feel the slick of her blood, and he remembers that he had scrubbed at his hands for days until he had been certain that they were clean. He’ll never forget the look on her face; in agony, and yet still smiling through it, because she couldn’t bear to have him watch her suffer.

And now Eleanor looks the same way.

His coffee is only half finished, but it’s gone cold, and he sets it aside on the nightstand as he reaches for his shirt. She doesn’t pay him any heed as he gets dressed, instead flipping through a pile of belongings on the desk, her back to him. “When I returned from my coffee run with Mac, there was a holodisk slipped under the crack in the door. I think you might want to hear this, Maxson.”

Hearing her use his last name is like a punch to the gut. She sounds like another one of his soldiers, rather than his equal. He elects not to respond, biting down on the inside of his cheek as she slides the holodisk into her Pip-Boy, and hits play.

“ _Wake up, Commonwealth._ ” The audio isn’t the best quality, but the woman’s voice rings out loud and clear in the small room. “ _Synths are not your enemy. They are victims in this war, as well. True, they were created by the Institute. But they were created as slaves. Thinking, feeling, and dreaming beings utterly oppressed by their tyrannical masters. So join with us in fighting the real enemy: the Institute. Join the Railroad. When you’re ready for that next step, don’t worry, we’ll find you._ ”

It crackles out, going silent, but before he can even open his mouth to ask a question, Eleanor— _Ridley_ turns to look back at him. “Give it a moment. They seemed to have added a last part on after.”

Sure enough, after a short pause, the recording picks back up. “ _General. Elder. If my spies have done their work, you will have found this when you awoke this morning. Your search for the Railroad has been anything but subtle. Should you wish to find us, I give you one instruction, and no more. Follow the Freedom Trail, and you will find us where the lanterns glow._ ” The holodisk cuts out with a quiet crackle, and a pop.

“Follow the Freedom Trail, and you will find us where the lanterns glow?” he repeats.

“Old North Church,” Ridley says, removing the holodisk, and storing it in her pocket. “Where the American Revolution began. They lit a lantern to alert the patriots of the Redcoats. ‘One if by land, two if by sea.’ Mac and I solved it.”

“That day at the Castle, you said you would introduce me to him. You never did.”

“Yes, well, he was keeping Hancock company, and we’re both aware of your feelings on ghouls. He said he met you once, and that he didn’t want to repeat the incident. You are resolute in your opinions, and you are more than welcome to them, but we are welcome to our own.” She pushes herself away from the desk, the wooden heels of her boots clicking against the floor with every step.

“Ridley,” he says as she pushes past him, catching her by her wrist.

She doesn’t try to fight him, but her eyes scrunch shut as though she’s in pain. “I’m going to go talk to Hancock about getting a discount at KL-E-0’s store. There’s no way I’m going to face down the Railroad without some ammunition for my pistol, but I also don’t want to pay out of my ass, you understand. I’ll be back.” Tears bead on the ends of her dark lashes. “Arthur,” she says, voice shaky, “let me go.”

He hadn’t even realised he was still holding her. Finger by finger, he lets her go. She doesn’t meet his gaze as she marches out of the hotel room, hesitating in the doorway before she slams the door shut behind her.

And he can hear the clicking of her shoes all the way down the hall in the silence she leaves behind.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~This entire fic is just one big middle finger at canon, and I'm not even sorry.~~

There’s a slight sway to Ridley’s steps as she leads Arthur through the streets, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She reeks of alcohol, even though she’s tried her best to hide it under perfume. She doesn’t say a word the entire way, keeping her grip tight on her 10mm pistol. The sun has already sunk below the horizon, the sky still stained with faint hues of gold even as night has begun to set in. The roads are paved with fresh bodies, bullet shells scattered about their corpses.

He has never seen her fight, but the carnage she’s left in her wake almost makes him nauseous. Is this why she had showered? To wash the stench of blood and death from her skin? She can scrub away at the dirt, but there is a heaviness that hangs around her that will not wash away with water and soap.

Old North Church is a dilapidated mess. He isn’t certain if he can even call it a building. Its walls are little more than crumbling piles of bricks, supporting a rotting, steepled roof. Ridley grits her teeth, bracing herself against the walls to navigate through the ruins. Her alcoholism is just as much of a threat to her health as her smoking habit is, but she clearly doesn’t care about the latter, so why would she about the former?”

_Careful eyes watched as a cigarette rolled across stained lips. The burning embers were as bright as her hair, and just as entrancing. “Those things will kill you, you know.”_

_Anger flashed across delicate features. “That was kind of the fucking point.”_

Arthur watches as Ridley fiddles with a large metal decal embedded into the wall, cursing under her breath. How much had she had to drink during her time with Hancock? Had the ghoul helped to feed her addiction? He wouldn’t be surprised. Ghouls are immoral, baseless creatures who have no humanity left in them. Hancock might have corrupted her, Hancock could be the source of her addictions, Hancock—

Ridley slams her hand into the centre of the brass rings, scraping her knuckle against brick. No, Arthur thinks as the wall slides away to reveal a hidden passageway. She’s done this to herself. And he’s too busy pretending that it’s better for her for them to be apart to try to help her.

The General’s hands curl into fists at her side, the colour draining from her face as she steps into the dark tunnel, Maxson only a few steps behind. They’ve barely made it more than a few feet when blinding white lights flood the space, making spots dance in front of his vision.

“Well, well,” a grating, feminine voice drawls. “If it isn’t our favourite little Wanderer.”

Blinking against the bright light, Maxson sneaks a look at Ridley. She is not an inherently fearful woman. If the Brotherhood’s reports on her are correct, she’s more prone to reckless bouts of bravery rather than cowardice. All first-hand accounts from Fort Strong had agreed that she’d leapt into battle with a Behemoth without a second thought, even while fully armoured knights had cowered.

But she looks _terrified_.

Her paleness isn’t just from the lights; even the dark patches of skin from healing sunburns seem to have fled her complexion entirely. He watches as she swallows, her eyes on the auburn haired woman in front of them, casually smoking a cigarette as though they’re meeting for tea— _as though she doesn’t have a heavily armoured woman carrying a mini-gun by her side._

“I thought we’d seen the last of you, Wanderer,” says the woman in the centre. “Deacon had said you’d wanted nothing to do with us.”

“Unfortunately,” Ridley says through gritted teeth, “I find myself in need of your help. You’ve had your spies following me since I entered Goodneighbour, Desdemona. Your message confirmed as much.”

The Brotherhood has little information on the illusive Railroad, but Desdemona’s name is plastered across every piece of Railroad propaganda. She is the face, and head of the synth sympathisers’ organisation. “I shouldn’t even let you back in here after what you said.” Her cold gaze drifts to Maxson, and he understands then why Ridley is so uneasy. She watches him like she’s taking him apart piece by piece, uncovering all of his secrets with just a look. “But you went through an _awful_ lot of effort to arrange this meeting. Let’s just say I’m feeling generous.”

Ridley pulls back her lips in a snarl. “You? Generous? Next thing you’ll be saying that you want to make reparations with the Minutemen.”

“If anyone’s making reparations, it’s not us, Wanderer. You’re the one who refused to follow orders, and promptly declared the Minutemen as enemies of the Railroad.” Desdemona does not break Arthur’s gaze even as she speaks to the woman by his side. He is not used to feeling irrelevant, but she stares at him like he is—in her eyes, he is nothing more than an object to be inspected, and analysed, rather than the leader of one of the most powerful organizations in the Commonwealth. “Besides: you’re not looking so good. Who knows how much time you have left? You’ve been waiting for the cigarettes to kill you, but it’s going to be the alcohol that does it.”

How much time Ridley has left? The pale white light brings to attention her sunken eyes, the bags too purple to be from mere exhaustion. There is a sallowness to her colour, and her bones protrude a little too much from her skin in places they shouldn’t. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s apparent now.

“Oh fuck _off_.” Ridley is not a patient woman. She does not have the tact to put up with others, which is nothing but a trait a good leader should not possess. If anything, it almost makes her stronger. She is resolute in her beliefs, standing strong even in the worst weather, like a cliff facing the onslaught of the sea for centuries. But even cliffs erode with time. “I’m sacrificing enough of my pride coming here in the first place. I don’t need you trying to take my dignity too.”

Desdemona rolls her shoulders back, blowing out a plume of white smoke. “Trust me, _General_ —” it is difficult to make Ridley’s title to seem childish, but the leader of the Railroad somehow manages to do so, spitting it out through a sneer, “one wrong move, and I’ll be taking more than just your dignity.”

As if on cue, the agents on either side of her adjust their grip on their weapons.

Maxson doesn’t realise he’d raised his own weapon, aiming it squarely at Desdemona until she starts to laugh. The cold sound echoes in the hollow chamber. “Well, the stories weren’t wrong about you. Elder Maxson—the child playing at war. Tell me, kid, do you actually know how to use that thing, or have you forgotten since you started sending soldiers out to do your dirty work?”

“Would you like to find out?” he asks, narrowing his eyes, but before he can pull the trigger, he finds a hand resting on the barrel of the gun, pulling it downwards. Eleanor’s eyes are wide, her lips pursed. She doesn’t need to say a word; her silence is louder than anything she could say. “Eleanor,” he manages to bite out, “explain.”

He needs her to confirm that her suspicions aren’t true, that her relationship with Desdemona isn’t what he thinks it is.

“I used to be a part of the Railroad,” she says softly, looking up at him from under her lashes. Her words feel like a punch to the gut, a betrayal he hadn’t been expecting to hear. She removes her hand from the gun, reaching for the lapels of his coat before pulling her hands into her chest as she realises the intimate nature of the action. Her internal conflict is written across her face.

Arthur did this to her, he realises. She’s so fragile already—in her mind, her husband has been dead for less than a year, and she’s fall apart trying to find her son. He had told her that he did not want to return want to return to the way they’d been.

And now she’s reaching out for him, but he’s forced her to turn away.

“But it isn’t as simple as that,” she continues before his feelings of betrayal can manifest. “I joined because of the Minutemen— _for_ the Minutemen. We didn’t know what the Railroad was up to, and there was no one else that was willing to find out.”

“You said you and MacCready found them. This morning.”

“Mac’s been at the Castle for weeks now. We found them months ago.” She bites her lip. Then, quieter, she says, “I didn’t want to lie to you. I still don’t. I… I worked with them for a while, and then…”

“And then you pointed a gun to my head, and declared the Railroad as enemies of the Minutemen,” Desdemona says, her hand resting on her hip in irritation, despite the fact that Maxson has yet to lower his gun completely. “You were given one chance to leave, and never come back.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” The sharpness of her voice when she speaks to Desdemona is so vastly different from the softness with which she speaks to him. It is easy to forget that she is just as dangerous as he is, only in a different way. Maxson would raze entire communities to the ground in order to keep the larger population safe. Ridley would fight until her last breath in order to see that every last life is saved. He is a warrior, and she is the protector. Who, he wonders, is more dangerous?

“You always have a choice,” Desdemona says quietly. There is a forlornness in her eyes that is almost akin to longing for something long since lost. “But you chose the Brotherhood over us.”

“What’s done is done,” she says, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “It does not matter now. We have all made our choices, and the consequences that follow will be ours to suffer alone. Heavy is the head the bears the crown, and we are leaders before we are anything else. We must do what we think is best.”

Does this means she understands? Does she know that he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to put him before her own men? She’s right; they are leaders before they are anything else. They do not have the luxury of making decisions for themselves, and themselves alone—not when the future of an entire nation rests on their shoulders. And when the Institute is gone, when the dust has settled, they will be left standing in the ash and ruins with nothing but a lingering question:

_What if?_

What if they had done it differently? What if they had saved more lives? What if they had left more to die? What if they could change the past?

 _“What if?”_ they ask themselves. _“What if? What if? What if?”_

But the answer is always comes back to the same conclusion: _it doesn’t matter_. _Your actions, both good, and bad, will go down in history, and centuries from now, they will forget your name. Ensure, then, that you make your choices, and are certain in them, because you will never be able to take them back._

Arthur glances Eleanor—drained, and exhausted, and slowly wasting away from the addictions she uses to distract herself from her grief. She is kinder than Sarah ever was, and her need to protect everyone has led her to lose herself. She is strong, but she is also fragile. She is a steel blade that has seen one too many battles—ready to shatter into a million pieces, but will cut while she is whole, and even in shards she will draw blood.

And for the first time, when he looks at her—no matter just how _hard_ he looks—he does not see Sarah.

All he sees is Eleanor. Tired, broken down Eleanor with emerald eyes, and her golden hair which seems to glow with the fire of her anger.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_“It’ll take a week,” Desdemona said through gritted teeth, the Courser chip still clutched tightly in her hand. The Railroad had insisted that they keep it as payment for their services—something Arthur vehemently disagreed with, but they’d had little choice in the matter. It will only serve to help the Railroad; how many synths will they save with the information on the chip? How many months will they set the Brotherhood back?_

_They didn’t have a choice. Eleanor needed her son returned to her, even if it meant that he would never see her again. Once she had her son back, there was no reason for her to continue working with the Brotherhood. Still, Arthur had nodded complacently. “We’ll be back then.”_

_She said nothing, glancing at Eleanor out of the corner of her sharp eyes as the General talked about her synth friend with a man in a lab coat. “You don’t deserve her,” Desdemona said after a moment. “She’s a better person than you’ll ever be.”_

_He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Eleanor. “I know.”_

Arthur hates waiting. He’s not known for being patient—hell, if anything, he’s known for being the opposite—and when he wants results, he wants them instantly. The Railroad likely could decode the Courser chip in less than a week, but it’s clear that Desdemona doesn’t want to help them if she doesn’t have to, and she sure won’t make it her top priority if it inconveniences them.

But a week without the Courser chip decoded is another week Shaun is with the Institute.

He should take this free time to relax; without the information on the chip, the Brotherhood has little to do besides their routinely duties, and the men don’t need him around for that. The lack of the things to do, however, has only served to make him anxious. Any number of things can go wrong. He doesn’t even know if Desdemona will uphold her end of the bargain.

Besides, even if he wanted to relax, he imagines he’d struggle with it.

He had expected Eleanor to return to the Castle while they waited for the chip. Most of her eclectic group of companions have taken up temporary residence there, and though she is a knight, few people in the Brotherhood respect her rank. They won’t say anything around him, but he’s heard the rumours. Even if he’s trying to be professional with the General, he can’t help the feelings of anger. He doesn’t like any of his soldiers insulting their brothers and sisters in arms— _at least, that’s what he tells himself, even though he knows it’s a little more personal._

The General is… distracting. He’s been trying to avoid her since they’d returned to the Prydwen, but she always seems to be doing tours of the Prydwen. He knows it’s only because of her restlessness—that she doesn’t do well in enclosed spaces, and needs an outlet—but somehow it feels like she’s going out of her way to make him face her. His day is so scheduled that it’s actually possible, but it doesn’t seem like her. She isn’t one to be so passive-aggressive.

Still, it’s odd to see her speaking with the squires, helping them with their drills. It’s even stranger to stumble across a meeting with her and Proctor Quinlan as he questions what her life was like before the War. Arthur knows very little of her life before she’d awoken in the Commonwealth, he realises as he listens in on their conversations. He knows about Nate, and Shaun, and how she came to be in the Vault, but his knowledge ends there.

And he knows he has no right to, but a part of him grows jealous every time he overhears Quinlan laughing at one of her tales of the world before the War.

Hell, she’s even been helping Scribe Neriah with her strange mole rat experiments. He can’t escape her. The Prydwen isn’t a big place to begin with, after all, and after a week of running into her constantly, he had decided to lock himself in his quarters. It’s quieter, more secluded… At least, it should be, if it weren’t for the shouting coming from just outside his door.

He can barely hear the scraping of his chair against the metal floor as he pushes it out, the yelling and the cheering growing increasingly louder as he moves to the door. He throws it open, and finds himself blocked in by a wall of people pressed tightly together. The shouting makes him grimace, but as he pushes his way to the front of the crowd, the people watching start to fall silent.

“You fucking piece of _shit_!” shouts a woman. He doesn’t have to see her to know who it is. “If you’re going to bitch about the way I lead my men, at least have the fucking decency to say it to my face! What kind of goddamn fucking coward are you? ‘Paladin,’ my ass!”

Eleanor has Paladin Gunny in a chokehold, the older soldier managing to land a blow to her chest that knocks her away before she cuts off his air supply completely. Her eyes are almost ablaze, blonde hair sticking to her skin. Her tightfitting white tank top is drenched with sweat, the neckline stained with the blood that appears to be coming from a cut in her lip. She wipes the blood from her mouth on the back of her hand, split knuckles only serving to make the mess worse. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Gunny isn’t in a better state. Eleanor’s nails aren’t particularly long, but there are clear raised marks across the back of his bald head where she had clawed at him. His upper lip is caked in dried blood from his freshly broken nose, purple bruises already starting to form under his eyes. “You see?” he says to the crowd. “This is what you get when you recruit a wastelander whore into our ranks. Face it, sweetheart, you’re not cut out for this. Go back to getting knocked up by your friends, and raising their children.”

Arthur wants to intervene. He shouldn’t have even let it get this far. This breaks no less than five separate sections of the Codex, not to mention the code of conduct, but he cannot force his feet to move him forward. Gunny’s last insult has crossed a line, and it probably would have earned him a week of cleanup duty if he’d said it to Maxson.

But Eleanor isn’t that kind.

She lunges at the Paladin with a snarl. She’s nearly a foot shorter than the soldier, but she manages to knock him to the ground, straddling his waist as she pummels at his face. “You,” she spits, swinging, “fucking,” another punch, “asshole!” Another punch, and a sickening crack as she ruins his nose further. “You don’t get to say a goddamn word,” This time, there’s a gurgle of blood as her fist collides with Gunny’s mouth, knocking out several teeth, “about my family!” The Paladin starts choking as she continues, his swollen eyes rolling backwards as she continues beating him even as he passes out. “I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Before she can land the last blow on Gunny, Arthur grabs her wrist, pulling her back before she can actually kill the Paladin. Arthur doesn’t see it coming, but as soon as he pulls her back, she turns around and instinctively punches him in the jaw with her free hand.

The blow has him seeing spots, and might very well have knocked any other person out. Already he can feel it swelling, and the taste of iron fills his mouth, his teeth having cut open the inside of his mouth.

If the crowd had quieted when they’d noticed him, they go damn near silent now. The only sound that breaks the silence is Gunny’s gurgles, and Eleanor’s heavy breathing. She doesn’t look remorseful, her hands curled into fists by her side.

Slowly, Arthur reaches up to rub at his jaw, looking away only to spit blood on the floor. “If you were anyone else, Ridley,” he says in a low growl, “you’d be in the brig.”

She’s too angry for his threats to have any effect. “Lock me up, Maxson,” she hisses, staring him down. “I _dare_ you. I may be your knight, but I’ve taken no oath, and I don’t serve you.”

At this point, he’d be able to hear a pin drop. “This isn’t how you deal with an affront to your honour,” he says, trying his damndest to keep his cool because he knows hers is long gone. “There are _systems_ in place.”

“Fuck your systems.”

“ _No_.” Just as Gunny’s comment about Nate and Shaun had been her last straw, this is his. She makes it easy to forget that he’s an Elder of the Brotherhood. Most times, this is a good thing. He is used to being revered by his men, but this is not one of those times. There are rules in place for a reason—rules that prevent soldiers from trying to kill one another in the common areas, for example. “You agreed when you came aboard the Prydwen to follow our rules, our code of conduct. So far, you’ve done nothing but break every single one of those rules, and now you’ve assaulted one of my finest paladins.”

“ _Finest_?” she repeats with a hollow laugh. She doesn’t even move as several scribes rush over to bring Gunny to Cade for treatment. “Then you’ve set some pretty fucking shitty standards for your soldiers.”

“You will watch your tongue when speaking with me, Knight Ridley.”

“I do some pretty damn good things with my tongue, but watching it isn’t one of them, _sir_.” Her eyes meet his defiantly, an unspoken dare hanging in the air between them. He can still remember how her tongue had felt running down the length of his cock—can still remember how the last of her lipstick had stained the already flushed skin, and he had been forced to waste nearly half a bar of soap trying to wash it off.

“For once, I think I’d like to see you follow an order without complaint.”

“Well, we don’t all get what we want, now do we?”

The collar of his jumpsuit feels a little too tight, and thank whatever divine being is watching over him that his coat is long enough to hide his stiffening member. “The rest of you are dismissed.” He doesn’t need to shout for his voice to be carried, the tension in the room so thick that everyone seems to be hanging on every word. “Knight Ridley, a word in private, if you would.”

She inclines her head, ponytail swinging. Her face is still smeared with blood. “I’m afraid I’m busy.”

“And I’m afraid I didn’t give you a choice,” he snaps, pointing at the door to his quarters. “ _Now._ ”

Finally, his words seemed to get across to her, Eleanor’s eyes widening as she swallows. A scowl still contorts her pink lips, but she begrudgingly marches into his room, muttering curses under her breath. His room is the messiest it’s been in a while, empty bottles of alcohol littered about the room, and papers stacked in lopsided piles. She has her arms crossed, pacing back and forth in front of his bed.

“I’m not apologising,” she says as he shuts the door, his back still turned to her. “Gunny was out of line.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology. I know I wouldn’t get one from you,” he replies. “But you understand, for the sake of appearances, I can’t let you get away with this.” The lock clicks audibly as he turns it. He pivots on his heel, his blue eyes dark as they rake over her flushed, and sweaty form. “Luckily, I have just the punishment in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was I not supposed to use this angst for angry sex? Because I'm going to use this angst for angry sex.


	15. Chapter Fifteen [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ft. porn with plot (and feelings).

Eleanor twists the chain of her holotags around her finger as he watches her, biting her split lip. She still hasn’t quite caught her breath, and her eyes are glazed over with the lingering effects of the adrenaline coursing through her system. She freezes as he takes a step towards her, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“I’m sorry,” she says, despite what she’d said about not giving him an apology. “Maxson— _Arthur_ , I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say a word, but he cannot hide his smile as he continues walking towards her. She backs up, and promptly falls onto his bed, her shin striking the metal frame and sending her flying.

“Well, I thank you for your apology, but I’m afraid it changes little,” says Maxson, slowly shrugging his battlecoat off, and draping it over the back of a chair. “I can tolerate your insubordination, and I can ignore your other innumerable infractions, but assaulting another member of the Brotherhood? There are certain lines that cannot be crossed, and I’m afraid that this is one of them. And so, you must be punished.”

Her breath hitches in her throat as he leans down to brush a lock of hair away from her face. His fingers trail downwards, tracing the outline of her jaw, pausing only to wipe away the blood still staining her skin. His touch elicits shivers, and her eyes flutter shut as she presses into his touch. “Maxson,” she sighs.

“As pleasant as that sounds, I think you’ve said quite enough for today. You will not speak until you are spoken to,” he says, pulling back from her. “Stand up.”

Slowly, she gets to her feet, never breaking eye contact with him even as she cowers before the Elder. The bruise he’d left at the base of her neck had faded away, leaving only the palest of yellow behind. She stands at attention, her head held high in a small act of defiance. He knows she will never respect him as much as the rest of his soldiers do; the Brotherhood almost worships him as a god, and there isn’t a single soul who wouldn’t drop to their knees to venerate him.

But if Eleanor is going to be on her knees, it will be for different reasons.

He hooks a finger under the strap of her top, and pushes it down over her shoulders. Somehow she manages to keep her composure, the slight press of her lips being the only hint to whatever thoughts are going through her head at the moment. “Gunny,” says Arthur, “was out of line. But so were you. Would you accept such behaviour from your soldiers?”

She swallows, but doesn’t respond.

“That was a question, Knight Ridley,” he growls, pulling her head back by her hair. She yelps with surprise. “I expect an answer.”

“No,” she says. He narrows his eyes at her words in a silent warning she is quick to heed. “No, sir, I wouldn’t.”

 “And yet, you continue to ignore every single rule the Brotherhood has in place. This isn’t a game, Knight. We’re at war, and the rules exist for a _reason_. We have a chain of command for a _reason_. You follow my orders for a _reason_. Do you understand?”

Her reply comes out shaky, but he’s too surprised by her decision to concede to care. “Y-yes, sir.”

“You’ve been causing me an awful lot of trouble, Knight.” He slides the other strap down her shoulder. The Rexford had been too dark for him to take her in fully, but in the light of his quarters, he can see the clear outline of a faded circular scar marking her skin.

She swings her head to look at his hand, breaking her posture for a split second. Her ponytail whips around to rest on her opposite shoulder. “Raiders,” she murmurs as he taps it in a silent question his pride won’t let him ask. “When I first met Preston in Concord.”

He hums as she resumes standing at attention, placing a finger under her chin to force her to look at him. “Kiss me,” he orders.

She is a brave woman, who has stared Deathclaws down and dared them to face her, but she leans in tentatively, as though he is more frightening than any beast the Wasteland has to offer. But when she kisses, it’s like she’s trying to steal all the air from his lungs. Arthur can still taste blood on her lips, bitter and coppery. He’s half tempted to let her get away with what she did to Gunny. Still, she broke more than a dozen rules, and regardless of his affections for her, he can’t let her get away with that.

“Get on your knees, Ridley.” She obliges shakily, and has the sense not to break eye contact. He wants her to look at him, even if it takes every ounce of control that she has— _especially_ if it takes every ounce of control that she has. Eleanor reaches behind her head to untie her hair. “Leave it,” says Maxson.

She arches a brow, her lips twitching as she fights a smile. It isn’t just a display of amusement. It’s also a subtle reminder that even now, as she’s on her knees before him, that he only has as much control over her as she is willing to give. He may be in control of the situation, but they both know he would do anything she would ask him to.

He does not know just how intimate Nate and Eleanor were during their marriage—she has made it clear time, and time again, that their marriage was meant to be convenient than anything else—but she seems to understand what he is asking of her. She hesitates, silently asking for permission, as she reaches for the zipper of his flight suit. Slowly, she pulls it down, exposing his bare skin, marked by a multitude of jagged, angry scars covered in a downy layer of black, curly hair. If the sight of her on her knees hadn’t made him hard already, the feather-light touch of her hands brushing over his stomach certainly would have.

Eleanor pauses only to tug his briefs down, and the groan that falls from his lips as she runs a hand over his hard cock is involuntary. One week. He’d managed to stay away from her for just one week. By the Steel, if she is addicted to the alcohol and nicotine she consumes on a daily basis, then he must be addicted to her.

He can’t remember the last time he’d had a smoke, but he knows it was before he had met her.

His head rolls back on his shoulders as she experimentally thumbs the slit in the head of his cock, an appreciate groan coming from deep down inside his chest. “Knight, if you don’t hurry it along, I’ll be forced to take you to bed, and that won’t be much of a punishment.”

She snorts, amused. “You say that like _this_ is a punishment.”

“Would you rather I made you drill the squires with Gunny?”

“Is that a serious question?” she mumbles, and gives him no warning before she swallows him completely, despite her earlier doubts about being unable to do so. He almost collapses at the sensation of her warm mouth around his throbbing member, and when she starts to move, he damn near sees stars.

“ _Fuck_ , Eleanor,” he growls, reaching back to brace himself against the table. The vibrations of her muffled laughter almost make him spill right then and there. He grabs her by the ponytail, hissing as her teeth scrape along his sensitive skin, before forcing her to move faster. Her head bobs back and forth, Eleanor almost choking on his dick as she is used for his pleasure. Even if she gets some sort of pleasure out of following his orders in the bedroom, tonight is about him, not her. “I think Gunny might have had a point about you being a wastelander whore.”

Though she had punched Gunny for those same words, all she does is moan around his cock, rubbing her thighs together for some friction.

Arthur forces her to bury her nose in the downy hairs covering his pelvis, chin pressed up right against his balls. “You’re wet, aren’t you?” he says, the ashamed blush that creeps up over her neck only confirming his suspicions. “I bet I could fit my entire cock in you without even needing any prep. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to take you right here, on this table, making you scream so loud that the entire Brotherhood could hear?”

Her approval comes in the form of another moan, unable to move her head to nod.

“Then perhaps you should _behave_ ,” he snarls, rutting hard and fast as he chases his release. “Because I’d be more than happy to oblige if you were a good girl for once in your goddamn life.” His own words push over the edge, and he comes straight into her mouth, Eleanor choking as she tries to swallow it down, but swallow it down as she does, going as far to wipe up what spilled with her hand and licking her hand clean. _Fuck_ , if he wasn’t ready for another round at the sight of that alone. Her eyes blink up at him coquettishly, her lips starting to bleed again from the force he had used. “Do you want to come tonight, Ridley?”

She tries to disguise the eagerness of her nodding as he lets her go, but fails miserably. “I would, sir.”

He hums thoughtfully. The fact that she had swallowed everything he’d given her without asking had made him want to be a little more lenient with her. But she had enjoyed that too much for it to be a proper punishment. Slowly, Arthur sinks into a chair, flight suit all but falling away from his body. He runs a hand through his hair, thinking. “Bend over my lap,” he says. “I want to make sure you understand my lesson completely.”

Her hesitation makes him fear that he’s pushed her too far.

“El—” he starts, and his concern must be painted across his features for she shoots him a sharp glare, and walks over to him. She settles over his lap, face pressed against the outside of his thigh, and her ass high in the air. She doesn’t say a word. He considers taking his gloves off, but this is the first time he’s asked her to do this, and decides that—even if this is meant to be a punishment—he’ll go a little easy on her.

He all but yanks her trousers down to her ankles, exposing the creamy flesh of her rounded ass.  His sharp intake of air makes her let out a breathy laugh against his thigh. “Like what you see?” she teases.

Normally, he’d reprimand her for mouthing off, but she’ll soon have a fitting punishment for her insubordination, and he will just add it to her already long list of transgressions. “You’ve been misbehaving, Knight. Did you think I would let you get away with it?”

“N-no, sir,” she stammers as he peels away the drenched fabric of her black panties to get a better view of her. Sure enough, her centre is all but dripping on his lap.

Gently, Arthur kneads her ass with a light touch, prepping her for what’s to come. “Then why did you do it, hm?”

“I was angry, sir.”

“At me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t have to ask her why she was angry with him. He can still see the heartbreak written across her delicate features when he’d decided to spare her the Elders’ ire, as well as Ronnie’s potential mutiny, by forcing her to endure a whole different kind of suffering. “And what resolution were you hoping for your insubordination to bring?” She doesn’t respond. “Answer me, Knight.”

“I-I wanted you to take me, like you did in the Hotel,” she mumbles into his thigh, ashamed. “I wanted you to mark me, and I wanted people to see. Even if we couldn’t be together, I wanted some part of me to belong to you, and you to me.”

He almost regrets asking her to bend over his lap. Her desires aren’t entirely unreasonable, even if her way of getting them had been. The poor thing has lost too much to not be instantly attached to the first man to show her any degree of attention. She needs someone like Preston Garvey—someone who will teach her how to be kind, how to turn her temper into temperance. She needs someone who will love her, and put her above everything else. She doesn’t need someone who’s almost as fucked up as he is.

“You could have just asked,” he says.

“My pride would not let me, sir.”

“So what’s your first lesson, then?” he asks her, and she freezes as she realises what’s coming next. Still, she makes no attempt to move, to flee, or to stop him whatsoever.

He doesn’t have to see her to know that she’s closed her eyes, bracing herself. “To not fall victim to my pride, sir,” she says, and the cry she lets out as his hand collides with her bare ass is positively _delightful_.

He leans down to whisper in her ear. “Too much?” he asks, worried, despite her lack of protests.

She lifts her head up only to shake it. “Not enough,” she says. “I can take it, Arthur.”

God, but if his name doesn’t sound lovely on her lips. He returns her nod with a curt one of his own. “So not only,” he continues, watching as a crimson imprint of his hand already starts to blossom on her skin, “do you deliberately antagonise me, you disobey my orders in front of my men _again_. How many more times do we need to have this conversation, Ridley?”

“This is the last time, sir,” she says, breathless but not sounding in pain.

“Lesson two, then?”

It takes her a little longer to admit to this lesson out loud, her aforementioned pride making her bite her tongue. “To follow, and to behave, and to be respectful when there is an audience.”

His hand comes down with an audible _smack_ , and she almost jumps away, but relaxes as he begins to rub reassuring circles. “Good girl,” he croons. “You’re learning. But what about the third lesson? You hurt me, Eleanor.”

“So did you.” The crack of her voice gives away the thoughts she cannot hide. “But I will refrain from assaulting you in the future.” She stills, awaiting the next swat against her backside but it never comes.

Instead, Arthur grabs her waist, and turns her so she is straddling his hips, one leg on either side of him. Her irises are blown wide with both lust and shock, her breaths coming in short, startled gasps. “I never meant to hurt you,” he murmurs, tracing the cut in her lip. “I didn’t want to subject you to all the troubles that come with being with a man like me. There are… duties expected of women attached to me. You would have to marry me.”

“With all due respect, _sir_ ,” Eleanor spits his title like an insult, “that wasn’t your decision to make. Not alone, at least.”

“No, you’re right,” he concedes, unable to meet her angry eyes. Shame burns hot, and fiery in his chest. “It wasn’t. I thought it would make it easier on both of us, but I couldn’t stay away from you for more than a week.”

“You’re an asshole,” she says, and while he might have chastised her on any other occasion, he knows this time, it’s warranted. She cups the side of his face with one calloused hand, running her thumb over his beard. “You don’t get to decide what I do, or _who_ I do for that matter. What the Brotherhood wants of me is, and I mean no offence, utterly irrelevant.”

“It was just as much Ronnie as it was the other elders,” says Arthur. “The mutiny—”

“Would not take nearly as much time to recover from as you might think,” she finishes. “Ronnie has been doing this for far longer than I have, but I’m the one who rebuilt the Minutemen from the ground up, while she ran off and hid, only to re-join when she thought we had a chance. And, we are _not_ the Minutemen of yesteryear. I would rather her take those who wish to go with her, and be left with fewer, loyal men, than a multitude of disloyal ones.” Eleanor forces him to look at her, pulling his chin up. “You’re an idiot, Arthur.”

She sounds so much like Ingram he almost laughs. “I know,” he says through a lopsided smile. “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do around you. You’re…” Desdemona’s words flash through his mind. “You’re a better person than I’ll ever be. I don’t deserve you.”

“Bullshit,” she says, moving closer to him, and inadvertently rubbing herself against his already-hard cock. Or was it intentional? He doesn’t know. She doesn’t elaborate much more than that, capturing his lips in a heated kiss that leaves him breathless and dizzy. “A-Arthur, I need…”

“Hm?” he says against the pale column of her throat, the Vault Dweller letting out a laugh between gasps as he leaves a fresh mark where he had left the last one. Her hands pull at his hair for something to grab onto. “I’m not going to do anything unless you ask me to, Ellie.” She freezes for the briefest of moments, but it’s enough to make him pause. “What is it?”

“Nate used to call me that.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?” he asks.

“No,” she says, almost doubling over him, forehead pressed against his. “It’s been… so long. But I need… I need you inside me.”

He almost lets out a growl fierce enough to rival a feral ghoul’s, pulling him flush against hers. “Fuck, Eleanor. You’re going to be the death of me.”

There isn’t a moment’s hesitation before he lifts her up by her hips—with a grip so tight, he’s sure she’ll have fingertip sized bruises—and promptly slams him down onto his aching member. She lets out an exhale, as though she has been holding her breath this entire time, and he can’t even bring himself to reprimand her for breaking eye contact. He’d had a little too much to drink last time, and his last orgasm had left him incredibly sensitive.

But god _damn_ if she doesn’t feel exquisite.

She lets out a long, drawn out moan that’s like music to his ears, starting to rock against him. He keeps one hand splayed across the small of her back, supporting her as he bends down to leave small bite marks across her breasts. She’s stunning, absolutely fucking stunning. All the women he’d been with before her had been hardened by the Wasteland, and here she is, looking like a dream.

He can almost hear Magnolia’s melodic crooning: _“Have you got a history that needs erasing? Did you come in just for the beer and cigarettes? A broken down dream you’re tired of chasing Oh, well I’m just the girl to make you forget. So we’re glad you dropped by, come in and loosen up your tie. Have a drink, or maybe just one more.”_

He meets Eleanor’s thrusts with his own, driving as deep as he can into her hot core, the pre-War woman clutching onto him as though he is the only thing keeping her in this time period. She soon comes, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and he falls apart underneath, jerking his hips upwards, and spilling deep inside her with a groan he cannot contain.

The heady scent of sweat, cigarettes, whiskey and sex almost makes his head spin as he gingerly pulls himself out of the blonde woman, carrying her limp form over to his bed where she struggles to catch her breath, her eyes glazed over with pleasure. “Shit, Arthur,” she says, a high-pitched giggle escaping her flushed lips.

He bends down to place a kiss on her forehead, only to be pulled down to kiss her properly. Oh, how he’d like to stay with her in bed forever, but the day isn’t over yet, and they’ve still got an awful lot of work to do. “I’m going to go have a shower,” he informs her. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“You have a private shower?”

“Perks of being Elder,” he says with a small smile that makes her eyes light up.

She stretches out on his bed, removing the tie from her hair, and shaking it loose. “In a moment,” she says. “I think I need a moment.” He looks down at her once more before nodding, humming one of Magnolia’s lines under his breath.

 _But if you’re searchin’ for something to bring you comfort, oh well, I’m the one you’re lookin’ for_.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's five a.m when I'm posting this, but here's your daily dose of relationship problems because I'm a sucker for power dynamics. Also featuring Eleanor getting a say in what happens with them for once in her life.

He steps out of his private bathroom, towelling himself dry, to see Eleanor sitting on his bed, tying up the laces of her boots. Her hair is still wet from the shower, but she’s let it down around her shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to hide the marks of his affections. “You leaving?” he asks.

Eleanor doesn’t look up at him. “I’m afraid so.”

He leans against the doorframe, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “Eleanor,” he starts, but she doesn’t give him a chance to finish.

“Maxson, sir, I respect what you were trying to do for me,” after the intimacy they’d shared not an hour ago, her impartiality makes him wince, “but please understand when I say that it might take some time for me to come to my own decision. This—us—is nice, but you bring up a fair point when you say that there are certain things expected of women attached to you. Nate was in the military. I know what’s expected of their wives. I was lucky enough that my profession excused much of my behaviour, but I doubt I will get away with that again. The other elders will want you to sire a child, and to wed a woman whose sole purpose will be to raise that child. I do not yet know if I can be that person for you.” She finishes tying her shoes, her hands resting primly in her lap. “A part of me wants to be. But the other part…”

“The other part of you is still looking for Shaun,” he finishes. “For the family you left behind.”

“Not to mention the Minutemen.” Eleanor lets out a sigh. “There’s an awful lot to consider. You make it difficult to think rationally. It’s not every day a handsome man such as yourself shows up out of nowhere, and offers me a kingdom. Least of all his hand in marriage.”

Arthur wouldn’t say that he’s handsome. Striking, perhaps intimidating, but there have been few times he has been described as handsome, and most times it had been from people looking to earn his favour. He’s little over twenty, and already is so battle scarred that she had thought him to be a decade older. It’s strangely reassuring, that she does not care that his visage has been mangled by scars. But she’s good at seeing him as nothing more than a man trying desperately to not fail his family’s legacy. There are titles that can eclipse people, until their names are forgotten, and they go down in history for their deeds, and not as a person.

He has seen it happen. They say absolute power corrupts absolutely, but it is not just the soul that is corrupted. Everything those is power have ever touched is tainted by the same corruption, and then their faces start to blur until all that is left of them is their pride. It is easier to hate someone who is barely more than a person.

Then there are other kinds of leaders, who sacrifice every part of themselves until they are nothing more than ash and dust that is quickly blown away by the wind. _Like Ashley_. Sarah’s lover had been prepared to give everything to bring the Capital Wasteland back from the brink. Hell, she’d almost died for the sake of Project Purity.

There is a reason, he thinks, they now call her the Lone Wanderer.

It would have been simpler for Arthur to have stumbled across another Wastelander, or even a member of the Brotherhood. There are many women who would be more than happy to live a simple, domestic life raising his child. The Elders had even tried to set him up with a few volunteers, but they had been little more than simple distractions. He could ignore them for months without ever missing them.

He hadn’t even managed to stay away from Eleanor for a week.

She is the most antagonising woman he has ever met, and she seems to have made it her life goal to test him at every turn. She is defiant, disobedient, insubordinate, and disrespectful. She forces him to earn her approval, rather than giving it to him freely just because he carries the Maxson name. She reminds him that he is not perfect, but it is this that makes him a good leader.

He wants to show her that he is worthy of her— _“She is a better person than you’ll ever be”_ —but how much time do they have? Once they destroy the Institute, the Brotherhood will only stick around long enough to secure the Commonwealth before returning to the Capital Wasteland.

“I can’t give you a definitive answer right now,” Eleanor says, slowly making her way over to him. “But once Shaun’s back…”

“I wouldn’t ask you to put me before your son.”

“I know,” she says. “And that’s more than I could have ever asked for.” She isn’t quite tall enough to reach him, raising herself up on her toes to hook her hands behind his back, and he catches a glimpse of her and Nate’s wedding bands hanging from the chain of her glowing holotags. “You push me, to the breaking point sometimes, but you know your limits.”

He swallows at her close proximity. “Have others not done the same?”

An ugly scowl finds its way onto her beautiful lips. “Desdemona wanted me to help wipe a runaway synth’s mind. When I told her I couldn’t do that, she got… angry. Furious, really. She said I owed it to the Railroad to follow her orders. And that was when I held a gun to her head, and told her no.”

“I respect you too much to do the same.”

“You respect me?”

“You said it yourself, Eleanor: you rebuilt the Minutemen from the ground up.”

She huffs, unable to take the compliment without being embarrassed. “You flatter me,” she mumbles, dropping her hands so she can turn to leave.

He catches her by her wrist at the last moment, pulling her back until she is closer than she was before. She’s still flushed, and she smells of the Brotherhood’s sharp, bitter soap. Eleanor nearly melts against him as he brings his lips to hers in a tentative, uncertain kiss. This is new territory, one they’ve yet to explore. What they need now is time to get to know each other as more than just allies.

“Are you trying to get me to stay?” she asks. “Because it’s working.”

“You certain you can’t?”

“I need to contact Preston. We’ve still got the Courser chip to worry about, and I promised to help Lancer-Captain Kells with a missing supply problem.” She breaks his grip on her to look down at the stack of holotapes sitting by his terminal, all of them reports awaiting his approval. “Besides, you’ve got a lot of work to do, Arthur.”

He frowns, dreading the amount of work he has to do. He has five reports from Ingram alone about the state of their new project. Liberty Prime. He remembers seeing the imposing robot as a child, craning his neck to look up at the walking hunt of metal and wire. It had helped to destroy the Enclave, only to be destroyed in the process. He hadn’t been surprised when Ingram had proposed that they bring Liberty Prime back to life in order to fight the Institute. Once they had that chip decoded, and secured Liberty Prime some weapons…

The Institute would be wiped from the face of the Earth, nothing left of them but rubble, and dust, and the memory of an institution that had terrorized the Wastelands for far, far, _far_ too long.

“I’ll contact you if I hear anything from the Railroad,” Arthur says as she goes to leave.

She pauses in the door way, a soft smile on her lips. “I would expect you to,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially in act two now. This is weird. I'll be honest, this started off as a 5 chapter thing. Act one was almost 40k, so clearly that didn't go according to plan. Next chapter: the start of a new sub-plot, and a certain Vault Dweller from the Capital Wasteland makes an appearance.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Desdemona had said that it would take the Railroad a week to decode the Courser chip, but as one week slowly turns to two, Arthur begins to get worried. Has the underground, secretive organisation cheated them out of their only chance to get Eleanor’s son back? The Brotherhood has the luxury of time when it comes to destroying the Institute. Shaun, however, is quickly running out of time. He does not know for what purpose the Institute wants the son of a Vault Dweller, but he knows it can be nothing good.

“So I’ve already set up a supply line between the airport and Nordhagen Beach, but the beach isn’t exactly the best farmland, which Proctor Teagan has been getting on my case about,” Eleanor says, leaning back in her chair as she reads from her scribbles on a clipboard. “He actually proposed—to my face—that the Brotherhood simply go down to any of my settlements and just _take_ shit. You’re damn lucky he’s in a cage, otherwise I might have needed to hit him. Half of my settlers don’t even have enough supplies to feed themselves as it is, and he wants the Minutemen to sacrifice supplies we don’t have to give in order to fill the Brotherhood’s coffers?”

He’s not really paying attention to what she’s saying, pacing the length of his room with his hands clasped behind his back. Surely Desdemona wouldn’t risk earning the ire of both the Minutemen and the Brotherhood, would she? “Ridiculous,” he says to Eleanor, if only to maintain appearances.

She doesn’t seem to notice his distractedness. “But if we create a supply line between Nordhagen Beach, Country Crossing, Finch Farm, the Slog, and Greentop Nursery, we should be able to find enough excess goods to supply the Brotherhood as well as our own men. Eventually, I hope to bring in the Cottage, the Lighthouse, and Croup Manor, but I imagine we’ll need more men. I might be able to negotiate something with Bunker Hill, but the Minutemen currently have little influence there so I won’t be able to do anything but get a few traders who would be willing to do business with us. Of course, my settlers will need protection while they’re out there, and I was hoping the Brotherhood could help?”

“Whatever you need,” he says, still deep in thought, and saying what he needs to say in order to placate her. Eleanor had said that Desdemona had had spies following them since she had entered Goodneighbour on her own, and had waited for him. Even if Eleanor had known, there was nothing she could have done about it. Their trip to Goodneighbour wasn’t her searching for the Railroad, it was getting permission to come back after her betrayal. She hadn’t need to look for them, so why…

“And I’ll need twenty suits of power armour, mmmm let’s say fifty vertibirds, and the entire Prydwen,” she continues. “Sounds good?”

“Yes, of course—” He breaks off, frowning as he processes her words. “Wait.”

“I knew you weren’t listening to me!” she cries out, half triumphant, half offended. She crosses her arms, brows set in a line. An unlit cigarette is pinched between her lips. “I know this isn’t the most interesting of subjects, Arthur, but if Teagan starts instructing knights to steal food from settlers, I’m going to have to steal it back, and it’s not going to end well for anyone.”

“I’m sorry, I was just…” His frown deepens. “If you knew where the Railroad was, knew that their spies were looking for you, who killed the mutants?”

“What mutants?”

He remembers the unsteadiness of her walking when she’d led him to Old North Church, and the scent of alcohol on her breath. “The ground, it was littered in bodies. Fresh ones. I thought they were from you and MacCready, but you said you found the Railroad months ago.”

“So?” she says. “It’s the Commonwealth. Not exactly the most peaceful place.”

“And it coincidentally happened to make a path to the headquarters of a secret organisation?”

“The Railroad has been poking around Goodneighbour for ages now. It could have been anyone looking to join.”

Arthur shakes his head, lips pressed together. “Normal people don’t slaughter their way through half of Boston. If it was the Brotherhood, I’d have heard about it. If it was the Minutemen, you’d have heard about it. The only other person it could have been is you, and if it wasn’t…”

Eleanor sets her clipboard down on the table, pulling her hair back away from her face to tie it in a knot at the nape of her neck. “That’s not the only thing that concerns you, is it?”

“What if this stranger is the reasons Desdemona has yet to give us the chip?”

“It’s only been thirteen days, Arthur. She must have a reason. Give it another day, and I’ll go find her myself.” She rubs at her eyes in exhaustion. Neither of them have stopped working since they got up this morning. They’re both using it as an excuse to avoid talking about the previous week’s events. She hadn’t managed to tie up all of her hair, and several stray wisps fall across her eyes. She brushes them behind her ear, irritated. “You worry too much.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Should I be?” she asks. “Arthur, please, can we just get this done and over with?”

“She said a week, Eleanor.”

“Desdemona says a lot of things. In fact, it’s harder to get her to shut up, than it is to get her to talk. She has an opinion on everything, including my health… which you witnessed.” He doesn’t want to tell her that Desdemona may have a point with her remarks on Eleanor’s alcoholism, and smoking habit. “I wouldn’t listen to half of it. It’s probably more difficult than it seems. Now, _please_ , can we—” Loud, rapid bangs on the door cut her off, and anger flashes in her eyes. “For fuck’s sake,” she snarls, pushing herself onto her feet.

He turns his back to the door as she throws it open, pinching the bridge of his nose as he thinks.

“We’re a bit busy. Is it urgent?” he hears Eleanor say.

“Well… damn.” He hasn’t heard that voice in years, but he would recognise it anywhere. He whips around, pivoting on his heel to see her standing in the doorway, her lips pursed. Her golden skin is host to several more scars since the last time he had seen her, raking down the right side of her face in jagged lines. Thin, dark brows are set in a line over chestnut coloured eyes.

 _Shit_.

“Sorry, you just… look like a ghost. I was looking for the Elder.”

“A ghost?”

Arthur comes up behind Eleanor, his stomach twisting at the sight of the dark haired woman. The years haven’t been kind to her. The last time he’d seen her, she was younger than he is now—eighteen years old, and bright-eyed even as she fled the only home she’d ever known. Ten years in the Wastelands, however, is enough to change a person, and she has been on her own for five of them. “Ashley, I’d like you to meet Eleanor Ridley, General of the Minutemen. Eleanor, this is Ashley. Saviour of the Capital Wasteland, and… the Lone Wanderer.”

Ashley grinds her teeth, and the pain in her eyes when she looks at Eleanor is all too familiar. “Maxson,” she says, “we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do all the cameos I write seem like a cameo in a BioWare game? Who knows--probably because I play too many BioWare games, but ah, well, what can you do?


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur finally faces his own guilt.

Ashley pours herself a glass of his whiskey, pacing as she takes careful sips from it. She sweeps her ash brown hair back, exposing the shaved side of her head. “I was sent here to give you this. Des says you ‘owe her a favour’ now,” she says, tossing Eleanor the Courser chip. “I don’t know what it is, but—”

“Why are you really here, Ashley?” Arthur demands, cutting her off before she can even begin. He hasn’t seen her in five years. He hasn’t seen since—

_“This is YOUR fault!” She marched straight past the knights standing between them. Not even Ingram had the energy to try to stop her. Her fury could rival a Deathclaw’s on the best of days, but today wasn’t the best of days. He didn’t see her strike until he was on the ground, nursing an aching jaw. He tasted blood. “She died trying to save you.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Sorry,” she snarled, pulling the knife Sarah had given him for his tenth birthday from her personal collection of weapons from his hip, “won’t bring Sarah back.”_

The Lone Wanderer doesn’t immediately respond, finishing off her glass, and setting it down on his nightstand. She carries no visible weapons with her, but knowing the sneak thief, she likely has a knife or two hidden away somewhere. “I was surprised to see that Ingram’s still with the Brotherhood,” says Ashley.

Arthur’s eyes follow her around the room. “Her soul is forged in eternal steel.”

“Like yours.”

“So they say.” He doesn’t know what she wants from him. People like her don’t come five hundred miles just to have a drink with people like him, especially not if they share a history as they do. It hasn’t been long enough for her to have forgiven him. Hell, he hasn’t even forgiven himself.

_He is the reason Sarah is dead, and he won’t let himself forget it._

“Are you with the Railroad?” Eleanor asks. This is, perhaps, the most respectful she’s been since he had first met her. She sits prim, and proper in her seat, and her unlit cigarette discarded. She fiddles with the holotape, turning it over in her in her hands absentmindedly.

“Not quite. It’s a recent partnership,” Ashley says. She swallows, unable to look at Eleanor for long. “General, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to have a word with the Elder alone.”

Eleanor hesitates, casting a nervous glance at Arthur, before nodding. She drapes her navy coat over one arm. “I suppose someone has to go over this holotape. Danse was asking about it anyhow. I’ll let you know if we find anything important, Arthur.”

He nods, not looking away from Ashley even as Eleanor slips out of the room. “You’re not here just to give us the information on the Courser chip, are you?”

“I don’t even know what a Courser chip is. I was just instructed to give the holotape to you in exchange for getting a ride to the Commonwealth.” Ashley toys with a button of her leather armour. “Are you sleeping with the General?”

He almost chokes. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It isn’t, but from what I’ve heard about the Minutemen, she’s a good woman. Ran into a lot of settlers on my way here who gushed about the ‘saviour of the Commonwealth’ as they call her. I didn’t expect her to look like…”

“Is that why you’re asking?”

“Please, like you don’t see the similarities to Sarah.” Ashley’s voice is dripping with venom. “So? What’s the answer, Maxson? Have you been fucking her because you never got the chance to fuck Sarah? Does she even know that she looks like Sarah?”

He _knows_ she’s trying to antagonise him— _it isn’t unwarranted. The woman they had both loved had traded her life for his—_ but he’ll be damned if it isn’t working. Ashley is a dangerous, manipulative woman. She has a wicked silver tongue, and it is perhaps her second favourite weapon to use, next to her 10mm SMG. But Arthur isn’t as level-headed as he wants to be, and he finds himself pinning Ashley to the wall by her shoulder, glaring into her dark eyes. “Eleanor means more to me than just a casual fuck,” he growls, “and if you say a single bad word about her, I’m throwing you off the forecastle. And no, she doesn’t, and you’re not to tell her, is that clear?”

The Lone Wanderer only laughs, leaning her head back against the wall. “Shit, kid, you actually like her, don’t you?” When he doesn’t respond, she continues to laugh. “How long have you even known her?”

“Why,” Arthur hisses, “are you here, Ashley?” He doesn’t notice the knife she has pressed against his stomach until she pushes him off of her, steel glinting in the light. Sarah’s name is carved in the pommel of the blade in the Sentinel’s scratchy, messy writing. He pauses. “Is that the knife you stole from me?”

“It was never your knife, Maxson. It was Sarah’s.”

“It isn’t yours either,” he says, and the olive-skinned woman shoves it into his hands forcefully. “I don’t want the knife, Ashley. I want to know why you’re here.”

“Bullshit, I know you want the knife, just like you wanted her brooch, and everything else she had ever touched. Does Ingram even have a piece of her anymore? Do I? No, because they gave it all to you. She wasn’t even dead a _day_ before they made you Elder.”

“I KNOW!” Her words are the final straw, and push him over the edge. Sarah’s knife falls from his hands, clattering to the ground. He had been repressing his thoughts about Sarah for almost five years now. Everyone around him knows not to bring her up.

He wonders if Sarah would be a better elder. What would she have done in his shoes? If she’d had this entire chapter under her command, where would she have led them? They both grew up with a name that eclipsed everything else about them. But Sarah had the luxury of being the sun; even when eclipsed by the moon, she was still there, still shining. She was a leader who made people want to follow her.

The people that follow him worship him like he’s a god.

She didn’t just wear the Lyons name, she _was_ a Lyons, through and through. She bettered her family’s legacy, and she made a name for herself. He says that he has done enough for the Brotherhood, but he hasn’t. What has he done, really? He had brokered peace with the Outcasts, but that was four years ago. He had killed the mutant by the name of Shepherd at fifteen, but how many other squires had done similarly impressive things and had been appointed elder for it?

Even Eleanor is a better leader than he can ever hope to be. Thirty settlements are now under her control, and dozens more are cropping up across the Commonwealth, and they all look to her for guidance. She had gathered what remained of the old Minutemen, and brought them back to life under new leadership, and reaffirmed the directive under which the original Minutemen had been founded. She isn’t a soldier, and it shows. She doesn’t care about winning a battle, or military strength. She cares about the people under her command more than anything else— _more than herself, sometimes._

And he’s nothing more than a child hiding behind the accomplishments of his forefathers.

Arthur runs a hand over his face, letting out a breath through gritted teeth. All this time, he had spent trying to be worthy of Sarah, and he knows now that he’s let her down. “I know,” he repeats, choked.

Ashley lowers her head. Sarah had loved her more than she had ever loved him, and once, that had made him angry, but there is nothing but a melancholic longing in his heart now. He wishes he could have known Ashley, could have seen why Sarah had loved her before they had both lost her. It is fruitless to hate Ashley for having something that had made the woman he’d loved happy. She had brought joy to Sarah’s life, so much so that the Sentinel’s last words were for him to pass on a goodbye she would never get to say.

“I wish,” she murmurs, “you’d been the one to die instead of her.”

“You’re not the only one.”

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that Ashley isn’t, and never was, a part of the Brotherhood. But then, other times, it’s clear. She doesn’t give a damn about the Maxson name, or his title. All she cares about is the fact that the woman she loved died saving an idiot sixteen year old from a raider when he had snuck out on a patrol. All she cares about is the fact that he’s the one standing in front of her now, and not Sarah.

“I don’t know if I could have stopped her,” Arthur says softly, sinking into a chair. “She was like that. She was always prepared to die for—”

“For people she loved, I know,” finishes Ashley, wringing her hands. “She loved you, in her own way. And you loved her.”

“So did you.”

“And so did Ingram,” she says. “She was just one of those of people that make you want to love them.” Ashley braces herself against his desk, looking down at his terminal. “But I didn’t come all this way just to talk to you about Sarah. You’re right. I know about your plans with Liberty Prime.”

“How?”

“Ingram.”

He should have been expecting that answer. “Of course,” he sighs.

“I can’t let you march Liberty Prime onto the people of the Commonwealth,” she says. “Do you know how many innocents were killed the last time he was unleashed?”

“There are no innocent members of the Enclave.”

“Tell me that when you’re the one standing amidst the bodies, and realising that you did this to them,” says Ashley, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Her brown eyes are wide and teary. “We killed children, and we didn’t even think twice about it. Madison Li recognised that, and half of your men wanted to kill her for it. I can’t let you release Liberty Prime on these people.”

“Do you even know _why_ we’re thinking of using Liberty Prime? Do you even know what the Institute has done?”

“The Railroad was more than pleased to fill me in on what the Institute is, but you’re going to kill innocents just because of what a few of their scientists are doing?”

His silence is the only answer she needs. “Sarah would have been disappointed in you.”

He doesn’t have the will to answer her. What can he say to counter her words? She’s right. Sarah would have been disappointed in him, for this, and for much more. She would not have approved of how he runs things, but he’s realising now that he does not need the approval of a dead woman to do what needs to be done.

And decisions, no matter how difficult, need to be made.

Ashley turns away from him, fingers gripping the edge of his desk. “Maxson, I didn’t come all this way for you to not consider what I have to say. You can’t kill innocents to get what you want.”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“From what I’ve heard? Eleanor. She could have destroyed the Railroad ages ago. She had infiltrated their ranks, got close enough to point a gun at Desdemona’s head, and she didn’t. She showed mercy, because there are times you cannot judge men by their actions. Sometimes, you can only judge them by their values.”

He despises how she knows exactly what to say in order to get him to listen. “The Institute is a threat to us all.”

“And right now, so are you.”

“I’m trying my best, Ashley.”

She pushes herself away from the desk, a scowl on her lips as she jabs a finger into his chest. He remembers how Sarah used to do that, even when he’d managed to surpass her in height; she had stared him down, and _dared_ him to try her. “When you’re the leader of the largest paramilitary group in the Wasteland, you don’t get to ‘try.’ You don’t get the luxury of failing. And if you fuck up, I can guarantee you that your gal isn’t going to stick around for long.”

“She isn’t ‘mine.’”

“But you want her to be.” It isn’t a question. She already knows the answer.

And he hates how right she is. “That’s not the point.”

“One of us has already lost the woman we’ve loved to a mistake you made,” she says, quieter. “Don’t make it two for two.” She places a hand on his forearm in some, strange attempt to be reassuring. “If you’ll excuse me, Maxson, I’m going to catch up with a few old friends, and if you need me, I’ll be at the Dugout Inn in Diamond City.”

“Wait,” he says just before she leaves. She pauses in the doorway, brow arched, and watches as he rummages around in his desk. He pulls out Sarah’s brooch, holding it in his hands for one long moment. He runs his thumb over the Lyons’ crest, before reaching his hand out towards her. “This was—”

“—Sarah’s,” she breathes out, taking it from his outstretched hand. “I thought it was lost.”

“You’re right, you know,” he says. “It’s not fair that they gave everything of hers to me. She would have wanted you to have it.”

Carefully, she secures it over her heart, the silver metal standing out against the dark leather. “Thank you,” she says, flashing him a wobbly smile before stepping out the door.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Danse and Maxson have a long talk, and Maxson realises he may actually be starting to fall in love with a certain General.

Danse nearly falls over as Arthur enters the room, jumping to his feet as fast as humanly possible. He slams his fist over his heart in a salute. “Ad victoriam, sir,” he somehow manages to get out despite how flustered he is. “Eleanor, er… Knight? General? _Ridley_ and I—”

He has known the Paladin for years now, and it still amuses him just how much he can catch the older man off guard. “At _ease_ , Danse,” he reassures with a breathy laugh. “This isn’t anything official. I came to check up on the holotape. I apologise for not being able to go over it myself.”

“I saw Ingram bring Ashley up to the Prydwen,” Danse mumbles. “I suspected she had a few words for you.”

Sarah’s knife is heavy in his pocket. “More than a few,” he says. It’s strange to see the Paladin outside of his power armour. It seems like he’s only ever out of it to do repairs, or to sleep, though he’s quite certain if he didn’t need to be out of it for either, he wouldn’t be.

Danse’s quarters are significantly less sparse than his own, the Paladin having furnished it with his own belongings, as well as some of Eleanor’s, judging by the Minutemen flag hanging on the wall. Jealousy flares in his chest at the thought of Eleanor spending her free time in here—Steel only knows that she doesn’t bunk with the other knights if she doesn’t have to. Arthur knows it’s unwarranted. Danse is her mentor, and he’d gone as far to sponsor her. There is no reason that the two shouldn’t be close, and after what Arthur had done, deciding that they shouldn’t be together without asking her, she has every right to spend her time with whomever she chooses.

He doesn’t know how the Paladin had managed to secure the worn sofas that make a small, makeshift living area, or where he’s managed to get his hands on the small armoury in the corner, but the space certainly looks far more lived in than his own. “Where’s Eleanor?” he asks, wondering if he should perhaps unpack his belongings after living on the Prydwen for so long.

“Cleaning up,” Danse says. “She refuses to shower with the rest of the men.” He coughs, realising that they have been standing in the doorway for the entire time they’d been speaking. “Do you want to come in? Sit down? Drinks are in the fridge. Eleanor’s almost finished. It was getting late, and well…”

“Danse,” he says sharply. “Relax.”

“Sorry, sir. You haven’t paid me a personal visit in a while, that’s all.”

He raises a dubious brow. “ _Is_ that all?”

The Paladin is a rather reserved character, keeping most of his opinions and thoughts to himself. It makes a good soldier—and the opposite of Eleanor, really—but he isn’t a particularly good liar. He sinks back into his seat, Arthur taking a seat across from him. He remembers when they used to talk every week, about everything from the weather, to the Brotherhood’s future plans.

“We were talking about you, actually,” Danse admits, taking a sip from a half-empty bottle of Nuka-Cola. He leans back in his chair, eyeing the Elder over the rim of the bottle. “She isn’t particularly pleased with you. She’s trying to be respectful about it. Something about ‘following, behaving, and being respectful when there is an audience.’”

_“Lesson two, then?” he asked, watching as a crimson handprint began to blossom across her skin._

_A short pause as she fought her own pride, but he knew she knew the answer. “To follow, and to behave, and to be respectful when there is an audience.”_

_A crack sounded as his hand came down for the second time. She twitched like a rad rabbit caught in a predator’s gaze, but she melted when he ran his fingers over her. “Good girl. You’re learning. But what about the third lesson? You hurt me, Eleanor.”_

_Another crack, but this time it was her voice, and when she spoke, it was barely louder than a whisper. “So did you.”_

Danse sets down the now-empty bottle down on the table, and the sound of glass hitting the wooden table is enough to break him from his thoughts. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“You made a mistake.” Danse’s honesty is refreshing after the careful game of cat-and-mouse they had been playing earlier, the Paladin not quite certain just how far he could push his commanding officer without being disrespectful. “I consider Eleanor a friend, and I believe she considers me the same. And I know she cares about you, perhaps more than she lets on.  But… I also know that it scares her. She didn’t love Nate as a husband, but she still feels like she should have, and now that he’s dead, she doesn’t know what to do. Weeks ago, she dragged me all the way to the Glowing Sea, if only to avoid confronting you about it.”

_“Why are you so kind to me?” Her words were a question he didn’t know the answer to. Or, more correctly, he knew the answer but he didn’t want to admit to it out loud. Admitting to it would make it real. “I’m a strange. An outsider, as you said. There’s no reason for you… for you…”_

_So he lied. He hid the truth, because he was ashamed. He didn’t know what, precisely, he was ashamed of. Himself? His growing affections? Or perhaps he was fearful that she might think the same. “Because I’ve been where you are, Eleanor. And as your Elder, I care about you.”_

_“I have seen people in positions of power not give a single shit about people like me.”_

_She looked beautiful standing there in the fading, purple light of dusk. Her golden hair was lilac, and her lips were the colour of mutfruit, and he wondered if they tasted of them too. It was as though she had stepped out of a pre-War photograph, looking now exactly as she had then. She was too perfect, too untouched for this time. And if he touched her, he feared she would be corrupted._

_“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not.”_

Arthur curses himself. “It was never my intention to hurt her.”

“Regardless of intention, you did,” he says. He pauses, rubbing at his temples as he thinks. “Eleanor,” continues Danse, “is holding on by a single thread of hope, and that’s Shaun. Everything else, she numbs with nicotine and alcohol. If you care about her, which it seems that you do, you need to be absolutely certain in your affections. She isn’t the kind of woman who can keep a casual thing going on with a man she cares about.”

He’s silent for a long moment, the faint rush of water as Eleanor showers is the only noise between them. “I’ll talk to her.”

“And you need to tell her about Sarah,” says Danse, meeting his blue eyes.

“Why?”

The older man lets out a heavy sigh. “Sir, if you don’t tell her, and she finds out, she’s going to think that the only reason you like is because she looks like a woman you once loved.” Danse hadn’t been with the Brotherhood long when Sarah had died, but there isn’t a single soul who had served under bother Maxson and Sarah who doesn’t know about his feelings for the young Lyons. “She hides it well, but she cares about you. Deeply. I do not know the specifics, but she said you made her an offer she was tempted to accept.”

_“There’s an awful lot to consider,” Eleanor said, and she wasn’t wrong. There was an awful lot of stake. “You make it difficult to think rationally. It’s not every day a handsome man such as yourself shows up out of nowhere, and offers me a kingdom. Least of all his hand in marriage.”_

It had hardly been an offer. He hadn’t been asking her to marry him, even if he wants her to. He wants to take her back to the Capital Wasteland, and show her off as his wife, his mother’s wedding band glittering on her ring finger. He wants to see her grow fat with his child, and he wants to spend years being a father to their child. He doesn’t care that she isn’t the kind of woman the Brotherhood wants him to wed. She’s uncouth, and she’s vulgar, and she’s violent, but she’s also merciful, and kind, and cleverer than she lets on.

He does not know the precise moment, does not know exactly when it had happened— _was it that night in Goodneighbour as she’d laughed to his attempts to regale her with stories from his childhood? Was it that night on the observation deck when she’d come so close to him he could smell her perfumed shampoo?_ _Or was it even earlier than that, during their first night together when they had shared a drink, and she had admitted to wanting to have died in her husband’s stead?_

No matter what the answer is, the answer is too long ago. He had loved her for far too long, and he was in the middle before he knew that he had begun.

He is a selfish, prideful being. He wants to blame it on those who had doted upon him as a child, wants to blame it on being an orphan at a young age, and not having parents who disciplined him. He wants to blame it on everyone, and everything, but he knows that it is, ultimately, his own failings as a person.

Through his failings, he had become a fool. He had a loved a woman he knew would never love him back, and had resented her for her lack of affection after she had died. What good is it to hate a dead woman? It is a waste of time, and energy, and it is better to look back at her with fondness rather than anger that leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth.

Presented now, with a woman who might very well love him for who he is, rather than for whatever power, and influence he possesses, he pushes her aside without a second thought. Every part of him longs for her, like he cannot breathe when she is not in the room, and he wants for nothing but to make her smile he knows now.

He had been so concerned about asking her to give up the Minutemen for him that he had not realised he is more than willing to give up the Brotherhood for her.

“Do you love her?” asks Danse.

It isn’t even a question anymore. Once, he might have said he wasn’t sure, but he had seen far too much of himself in Ashley. The look in her eyes when she’d accepted Sarah’s brooch is the same as his when he looks at her.

“Yes,” he says. “I think I do.”

“Have you told her?”

“No.”

Danse lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised? Maxson, Eleanor’s a remarkable woman, but she’s only human, and the Commonwealth isn’t… the safest of places. Especially not when you’re as well-known as she is. Let her know before it’s too late.”

The room suddenly goes quiet as Eleanor shuts off the water, and he has to drop his voice to not be overheard. “I will,” he says.

The Paladin flashes him a smile, picking up the empty bottle of Nuka-Cola, and carrying it over to a bin. “Do you want anything to drink?” he says, opening a small fridge to pull out another cola for himself, as well as a singular Fancy Lads Snack Cake on a plate. “I’ve got nothing but Nuka-Cola, and water I’m afraid. If I keep anything alcoholic around, Eleanor will drink it.”

His remark about Eleanor’s alcoholism sounds light-hearted enough, but they both know they should be concerned about it. He’s right when he says that she numbs everything besides Shaun with nicotine and alcohol. She’s falling apart at the seams, even as she pretends that she’s fine.

“I thought I heard you,” Eleanor says, combing through her hair with her hand. Her smile is dazzling, and he can’t help but picture a future where he gets to wake up to it every morning. “I was going through the holotape. I thought we might have to back to our source in the Glowing Sea, but I think Ingram can help fill in any holes.”

“Anything interesting on it?” he asks, watching in amusement as the General reaches over to take a bite out of Danse’s Snack Cake before returning it to his plate, much to the Paladin’s irritation.

“You know the classical music radio station?” Eleanor rummages through Danse’s fridge, pulling out a bottle of cherry flavoured Nuka-Cola, and pops the cap with the corner of the counter. “It turns out that that’s what the Institute is using to mask their relay signal. Essentially, what we need to do is hijack it, so when the Institute tries to teleport one of their Coursers, I get sent instead.”

“You are _not_ going to the Institute by yourself,” he says almost immediately. “I can’t send you into enemy territory.”

“I’m not a _squire_ , Arthur. I’m capable of handling myself.”

He wants to say that that’s not the point, that he’s scared half to death of losing her if she goes, but now isn’t the time. “You are vital to the existence of the Minutemen, Eleanor. If we lose you—”

“—which you won’t, and thus your whole argument is irrelevant.” She narrows her eyes. “They have my son. I’m not letting anyone else get him back. Please don’t make this into an argument. You need a way into the Institute, and I’m offering a solution. This is the only way to ensure the safety of the Commonwealth. And if I’m to die, I will do so trying to save Shaun. Better me than anyone else.”

 _No it isn’t,_ he wants to say. _If someone is to die, let it be anyone who isn’t you. Let me go, if only so you don’t have to._

But he knows it’s an argument he has no chance at winning.

Danse casts a look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, lips pursed. Arthur knows that they’re both thinking the same thing. “We can speak to Ingram in the morning about building something that can override the signal from the relay,” he says.

Eleanor closes the distance between them, perching on the armrest of Arthur’s chair. He can smell the cherry cola on her breath, sickly sweet but no less intoxicating than her usual blend of smoke and whiskey. “We’re so close, Arthur,” she says softly. “To getting Shaun back. To fixing what the Institute has done to the Commonwealth, but I need you to give me the go ahead on this project. I won’t do it if you say no.”

How can he deny her? This is the last hope she has, and once they have Shaun back, he will tell her how he truly feels about her. He wants her to know, even if she turns him down. But Danse is right. Shaun is the only thing keeping her together right now, and he cannot force his affections for her onto the woman lest she shatter completely.

“You have my permission,” he mumbles, despite every ounce of common sense saying that he should protest. “We’ll make them pay for their crimes, I promise. I expect you and Danse to brief Proctor Ingram in the morning. Whatever you need, it’s yours. You need only ask.”

 _Including me,_ he thinks _, however foolish I might be. Have my heart; it was yours anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I started writing this, it was meant to be a little more succinct than my usual, more fantasy based stories, but I kind of forgot about that in this chapter, and started unnecessarily referencing Pride and Prejudice. In all fairness, it was the inspiration for this fic in the first place. But Danse! Calling Maxson out on his BS! I toyed with this chapter for a while because I couldn't figure out whether or not it was in character for Paladin "stickler for the rules" Danse, but after wandering the Commonwealth for about 5 hours with my Eleanor savegame, I realised that high approval Danse is definitely protective enough of the Sole Survivor to be a little indignant. ~~Especially if you romance him.~~
> 
> Next chapter: Eleanor returns, drunk, from visiting Sanctuary for the first time since she woke in the Vault with a holotape from Nate, Nick and Maxson have a talk, and Maxson finally tells Eleanor about Sarah.
> 
> Also, warning now that I might not be updating on the 23rd of April, seeing as I won't be in town as I have to go write my final exam for the year. ~~Oh, _joy._~~


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, don't know if I'm going to be able to post much this week, so here's the first part of many chapters to meet this week's quota. Is this contradictory to last chapter where I said I wasn't going to post on the 23rd because of exams? Meh, kind of, but new plans came up in the twelve hours between when I posted that, and when I posted this so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

To no one’s surprise, Ingram comes to their rescue when tasked with creating the device that will let them hack the Institute’s relay. Eleanor stands, nodding along to the Proctor’s words as she begins to list everything they will need, and then she excuses herself, dragging Danse, and a German shepherd— _is the dog hers? Since when did she get a dog?_ —along with her as she leaves the airport.

And that’s the last Arthur sees of her for over a week.

She doesn’t message once during the nine days that she’s gone, and if it weren’t for Danse’s reports that come in every three days, he would fear that she’s dead. Now that they know what their next plan is, there is no reason for her to be confined to the Prydwen, especially not what with the extensive list of materials Ingram needs to make this device of hers.

He almost fears that Danse will tell her of their conversation, but he knows that the Paladin has more discretion that that. He knows what secrets to tell, and what secrets to keep, but as irrational as his fear is, it does not seem to stop plaguing him.

Nine days he lies awake at night, trying to remember everything about her. Her taste, her smell, her lopsided grin, her scars, and freckles, and eyes, and hair, and voice, and—

It’s as though he fears he will forget her, like she’ll fade away as the memories of his parents had. He cannot even remember the sound of his mother’s voice, or even the colour of her hair. Was it black, like his own? Or was it brown; the source of the lighter streaks in his hair? What about the colour of her eyes? The woman who had given birth to him, and he cannot remember much of her save for her name.

Arthur knows that she can handle herself, but for nine days he worries regardless. Does she have enough Rad-X? What about RadAway? Bandages? Stim-Packs?

He can’t remember the last time he had been so concerned for the safety of someone who wasn’t himself.

But on the tenth day, she returns at the crack of dawn with Danse, and her hound, along with a small army of Minutemen including Preston Garvey, and her synth detective. Three brahma struggle to carry the bags of metal scrap Eleanor has tied to their backs, and several Minutemen rush to remove their packs before the poor beasts collapse.

“Hi,” Eleanor says, voice cracking with dehydration. “I… brought help.”

“So I can see,” he says with wry amusement, folding his arms across his chest. “You were gone a while.”

“Worried, were you?”

He doesn’t let her see just how close to the truth she is. “Something like that,” he says instead. “Do you have everything?”

“Not quite, no, but Ingram says she has scraps from some ‘other project’ that she was willing to give us.” She looks almost as drained as the brahma, covered in a thick layer of grime and sweat that she hasn’t found the time to wash off. Danse isn’t much better, his usually spotless power armour dirtied, and needing a good polish. “By the Steel, woman, did you stop once?” he asks as her men start separating what she collected into piles. Every time he thinks that they’re finished, they find another piece.

“Not really,” she says, and she cannot keep the exhaustion out of her voice. “We’re so close, Arthur.” She’s almost manic, eyes wide, and delirious. He understands her desire to get her son back, but it’s led her to ignore her own health.

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when Shaun is safe.”

What will happen, he wonders, if her son isn’t the boy she expects him to be? He knows that the child is now a boy, Eleanor having missed ten years of her son’s life while she had been in the Vault, but what if he wants to stay with the Institute? What if he has no desire to know his mother?

All questions, he hopes, that will never have to be answered.

“It’ll take them at least a couple days if not a week to build the device, Ellie,” he murmurs, pushing a greasy lock of hair away from her face. “And you’re not engineer. Let them work on it. If you’re going to the Institute, you need to be at your full strength.”

He knows better than to appeal to her need to maintain herself, and instead targets her mission. Surely enough, it works, and her shoulders sag as she finally admits defeat. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Come back up to the Prydwen,” he says, already leading her towards the landing pad, and jerking his head at a squire to go tell someone to get a vertibird ready. “Have a shower. Maybe sleep. When was the last time you slept?” He makes eye contact with Danse as the Paladin engages Ingram in a discussion about their plans, Danse flashing him a grateful smile as he sees the Elder all but drag Eleanor back the Prydwen. “Or ate, for that matter?”

She doesn’t give him a proper answer. “I’ve been busy.” She reeks of alcohol, and smoke, among other more unsavoury things. At this rate, she’ll die before she ever reaches the Institute. It would be a terrible end to her tale, if she died not to a Deathclaw, or a raider, or a synth, but to her own poor decisions. “I haven’t had the time.”

He frowns.

“Don’t give me that look,” she mutters. “You’re disappointed in me, Danse is disappointed in me, Valentine’s disappointed in me, Sturges is disappointed in me, Preston is disappointed in me, and hey! Guess what? I’m disappointed in me too!” She glances down at the ground, grimacing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go after you like that. None of this is your fault.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Perhaps you should,” she says quietly, pressing her knuckles to her cracked lips. “Let’s just go.” She pushes past him, wordless, and people part for her, casting one glance at the woman before deciding that it isn’t worth starting a fight with her. Even Knight Rhys, who has make his lack of fondness clear through multiple official complains, stays out of her way, turning his ire instead onto an unsuspecting squire who scrambles to follow his orders.

“Do us all a favour, and don’t go after her.”

“Excuse me?” he growls, turning to the synth detective, the mess of steel and wires blowing out a plume of cigarette smoke through plastic teeth. The coverings of its right hand have almost entirely fallen away, exposing the steel framework beneath. Arthur can’t decide if this is better or worse than the human-looking synths. He knows this one is machine, at least, but his glowing yellow eyes are nothing but unnatural.

“She’s a tough gal, our Eleanor,” it says, tapping away the ash of its cigarette on the ground. “Does what she can when she can, but she isn’t too well right now.”

“Did something happen? Did you do something to her?”

The synth doesn’t even acknowledge his accusation. “Sanctuary was the first settlement she built, but once she’d built it, she hasn’t gone back since. Not even to check up on defences. Just sent me to tinker around with the turrets once in a while, and she’d always meet me at the Red Rocket. Didn’t understand why, until I had a chat with the Mr Handy that always seemed to be buzzing around.”

“She used to live there, pre-War.”

The synth shoots him a sharp glare. “That’s what I was getting to,” it says. “She found a holodisk from her husband.” A couple gears inside its head, glowing eyes blank, and then in a voice that must belong to Nate: “ _I don’t think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a mother you are. But, we’re going to anyway. You are kind, and loving, and funny, that’s right, and patient. So patient, patience of a saint as your mother used to say. Look, with Shaun and us being home together it’s been an amazing year, but even so, I know our best days are yet to come. There will be changes sure, things we’ll need to adjust to. I’ll re-join the civilian workforce, you’ll shake the dust off your law degree… But everything we do, no matter how hard, we do it for our family. Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye-bye, say bye-bye… Bye honey, we love you._ ” Gears whir a second time, and its inhuman gaze comes back into focus.

Arthur grimaces. The Eleanor Nate describes is not the Eleanor he knows. She is not patient, and she isn’t funny as much as she is witty. She is merciful, but that does not mean that she is kind. Sometimes, it is kinder to not to be merciful. It sounds like he is describing a whole different person, but grief does that to people; it leaves them nothing more than strangers wearing the faces of someone who used to be familiar.

It’s strange to hear a dead man describe a woman he knows intimately, in more ways than one, and for his description to sound like he’s talking about someone else.

“Didn’t see her after that,” the synth says. “She up and left, and when she came back… Smelled of smoke, and bourbon, eyes all red like she’d been crying. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic, and damn if Eleanor isn’t something exquisite.” The synth drops its cigarette, and he notes that it’s the same brand as Eleanor’s favourite. It grinds it out with the heel of its shoe, leaving behind nothing but glowing embers on the asphalt. “Go talk to her, but be careful. Push her too much right now, and she might very well break.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Arthur. “For a synth, you seem to care an awful lot about her.”

“I’ve got feelings, jackass, even if I’m not quite as human as you.” The animosity in its voice is almost convincing, and if it had look a tad less robotic, perhaps he could have believed it to be living being. Its gravelly voice is convincing, like it has been chain-smoking all its life. If he closes his eyes, he could convince himself that it is alive. The synth tilts its hat at him, whistling a song that’s a little too in tune. It shoves its hands in its pockets, lifting a shoulder in a shrug as it ropes Eleanor’s second-in-command into a conversation.

He finds Eleanor in his quarters, sitting on a chair with one knee pulled up into her chest, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey in the one hand. Her eyes are glassy and glazed over, looking more lifeless than the synth’s. She doesn’t even raise her head as he enters the room. The slight furrowing of her brow is the only thing that signifies that she’s even alive.

“Hope you don’t mind that I stole your room,” Eleanor says quietly. “I didn’t want to get drunk in the mess hall, otherwise people would ask questions, and I’m sure as hell not getting’ drunk on my bed where everyone else can see.”

“How long have you been drunk?” he asks. “Since Sanctuary?”

She makes a face, taking a swig from the bottle. “So Nick told you, did he?”

“He did.”

“Hm,” she says, smiling ever-so-slightly, but it’s bitter and angry. “You didn’t call him an ‘it.’”

He hadn’t even noticed. “Perhaps Valentine’s more human than I thought.”

“Perhaps,” she agrees. “And yes, since Sanctuary. Sue me.” Arthur doesn’t quite know what that particular phrase means, but it doesn’t seem to deter her. “ _Fuck_. I hate all of this so much, you don’t understand. This is all bullshit. Hearing Nate’s words… What the fuck happened to the woman I was? I didn’t use to smoke like my life depended on it. Didn’t use to drink booze like it’s water, either. And now Nate’s dead, and I’m not. He’d have got Shaun back weeks ago. You want to know something funny? Didn’t even get to say goodbye to him. Or Shaun either. Vault-Tec told us that they were just decontaminating—depressurising? Who the fuck knows—us when they put us in those pods.”

“Eleanor, you’re drunk.”

“I’m well fucking aware, Arthur. I’ve been drunk for almost a week now, cheers.” She raises her bottle in what is nothing but mockery, and her eyes are as cold as steel. “And, let’s be honest, I’m probably going to try to stay drunk until Shaun’s back. Maybe even after that, who knows? You probably don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you? I bet you’ve never lost someone you loved.”

“I have, actually.”

Her anger fades for a moment, and wordlessly, she hands him the bottle. “Tell me about them.”

He takes the bottle from her, coating the inside of his mouth with the cinnamon-flavoured alcohol as he pulls up a chair. “Her name was Sarah,” he tells her. “And she was the elder of this chapter before I was.”

He tells her everything, and she listens in silence, her eyes never once leaving his. He tells her about their first meeting, when he was five, and Sarah was twenty one, and how she had treated him as nothing more than a child. He tells her how she taught him how to kill a man, and he showed her the knife she had given him.

It’s perhaps the quietest she’s ever been, letting him tell her everything about her without questioning him once. The cinnamon whiskey burns his throat as they share the bottle, but it numbs the ache in his heart, and that’s perhaps all that matters. It doesn’t hurt as much as he had thought it might.

And he tells her how she reminds him of her.

It isn’t just the golden hair, or the squared jaw with soft cheeks. It isn’t the way she chews on her lip while she thinks, as Sarah used to, or the line that forms between her brows when she furrows them. It’s something deeper that; it’s the commanding aura around her, and the way everyone turns to look at her when she enters a room. It’s the way she isn’t worshipped because she isn’t a god, and she doesn’t need to be one—it’s the way people believe in her because she _makes_ them believe in her.

By the time he’s done, the alcohol is all gone, and the sun has started to set.

She speaks only to ask for clarifications— _“Did you love her?” “I still do.”—_ and she aimlessly wanders, wringing her hands as she listens.

And when he’s done, she leans against the table, looking a little more tired than she usually does. He expects her gaze to be full of pity, or perhaps even hatred, but they’re almost blank, and distant.

“Was my similarity to Sarah the only reason you agreed to work with me?” she asks as he lapses into silence.

He doesn’t quite know the answer. “At first it was,” he says, meeting her eyes. “But then… things changed.”

She doesn’t have to ask him to explain himself. “I see,” she murmurs, and when she pushes herself away from the table, there’s less of a sway to her steps than he’d have expected. She still hasn’t cleaned up, still smells of smoke, and of cinnamon whiskey. She taps a finger against her lips absentmindedly, thinking. “And so I wear the face of a dead woman, and with it I captured the affections of a man whose heart is made of steel.”

“It is not made of steel,” he says. “Not for you. For you, it is flesh, like any other part of me, but I cannot call it mine.”

“No?”

“No,” he affirms, “It appears that I have given it to another.”

The laugh that bubbles from her lips is far too cold to hold any amount of humour. “So it would appear,” she whispers. She jerks her head towards what little remains of the alcohol. “Keep the rest. I should ensure that they know what they’re building down in the airport.”

He doesn’t try to stop her from leaving; there isn’t any point. She is a storm, and he cannot possibly hope to contain her, and like rain she slips through his fingers no matter how hard he might try to hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, okay, I know that it _seems_ like Danse was right about Eleanor not liking the fact that Arthur originally--key word there--only cared for her because she reminded him of Sarah, but there is a very specific reason I've decided for this to be third person limited, and this is one of the reasons why. So! Don't worry! It's fine! Eleanor's just having some Eleanor time to think about things, and it'll all be resolved later.
> 
> Next chapter: Ingram and Maxson have a chat about Eleanor, and the Signal Interceptor is tested.


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which almost all conflicts would be solved if people were a little more selfish, and admitted to what they want.

There are few things he has experienced that are as painful as Eleanor’s quiet disregard for his existence. She doesn’t even look at him when he passes by her, pulling the closest person to her into a conversation if only to avoid speaking with him. She works on the Signal Interceptor from dawn until dusk, and she falls asleep on a cot amidst the storage crates rather than returning to the Prydwen to sleep with her fellow knights, or even in Maxson’s own bed. He might as well be a ghost, and he might have thought himself to be one if it weren’t for Eleanor being the only one to ignore his existence. He does not know if it because of what he said, or if it’s because of something else.

_“You need to tell her about Sarah.” Danse was never anything but composed. He was the picture perfect soldier, always prepared to follow orders without question, and to fight until his last breath. But he knew Sarah, and he knew Maxson too._

_“Why?” he asked, but it was a question he already knew the answer to._

_“Sir, if you don’t tell her, and she finds out, she’s going to think that the only reason you like her is because she looks like a woman you once loved.”_

In hindsight, it’s almost definitely about what he said to her about Sarah.

He is a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ idiot. A child, really, pretending that he knows what he’s doing even if he doesn’t. There are things about her that he will never understand, such as her grief. He is not a parent, he has never lost a child. He has lost a love, but it is a love that never came to be. He is incapable of loving her as she should be loved. She deserves someone who is not made of iron and steel. Blood may run through his veins, but he wonders if he is any less machine than Valentine.

Hours turns to days, and days turn to weeks. For fourteen days, Eleanor works on the Signal Interceptor, and slowly, the lounge in the airport becomes more and more filled with strange structures with unknown purposes. Generators hum all day and night, creating an intricate network of wires and cables as they channel energy from one side of the lounge to the other.

And on the fifteenth day, Ingram summons him down to the airport.

“You called, and I came,” Maxson says tightly, rubbing at his forehead as the Proctor clunks around in her modified power armour frame. “What is it?”

Ingram jerks her head for him to follow. “It’s done,” she says. “She leaves tonight. I thought you might want to say goodbye.”

“Is this about me,” he asks quietly, “or is this about her?”

“Why can’t it be both?” She counters his question with one of her own, raising one auburn brow. Nothing in the Wasteland can scare Hannah Ingram. Even when she had lost her legs, crushed under a hundred tons of stone, she had come up with a solution to let her walk again when so many others might have given up. Ingram is a force of nature in her own right. “The answer isn’t always as simple as it seems, you know that, Maxson. You’re trying to be subtle, but I’ve seen the way you look at her, but I’ve also seen how she looks at you. How come waging a war on the Institute doesn’t scare you, but the idea of talking to her does?”

“The last time I talked to her—”

“—she was so drunk she couldn’t walk straight,” finishes Ingram, “and missing her husband. You don’t have to get sentimental, Steel knows you’re not good at that, but at least say something as her ally.”

He doesn’t want to. He fears that his affections will only grow deeper; already they have wrapped around him like vines that refuse to let go, curling around his limbs with thorny coils, and he spills his blood in her name freely, and willingly. If his heart is made of steel, then she must be magnetised, because he keeps being drawn to her.

“Remarkable work, General,” Arthur murmurs, sidling up alongside her, his hands clasped behind his back. “You never fail to impress.”

She turns to look at him, black grease smeared across her forehead. It’s the only part of her appearance that’s out of place. Even the cuffs of her coat are perfectly folded. Golden buttons are all done up save for the top one, collar folded down across her chest, exposing the white interior lining.  “Thank you, Elder,” she says, flashing a smile that is polite, but little else.

“Are you…” He coughs. “Are you ready to put it to the test?”

She sweeps her loose blonde hair back over her shoulder. “I believe so,” she says. “You look worried. Why? Do you fear that the machine will fail?”

 _No,_ he thinks, _I fear that you won’t come back._ “This is the first time we’ve attempted to directly adapt Institute technology,” he says instead. “When we throw that switch, we don’t know exactly what’s going to happen. God willing, you’ll end up inside the Institute, and the mission can continue.”

Eleanor ducks her head, eyes hiding behind a shield of hair. “I’ll come back. With Shaun. You’re not as good of a liar as you think you are,” she says. “I know that this is about more than just the mission.” He hadn’t answered her question out loud, but she knows the answer regardless. “You’re afraid that I won’t come back.” It’s strange to hear his thoughts on her lips, like she had plucked his words out of the air, and turned them into her own.

He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.”

“It’s no more dangerous than the Glowing Sea.”

“You and I both know that that’s not quite true,” he whispers, “but that’s not going to stop you, is it? Not when you’re so close to the answers you’re looking for?”

She presses her knuckles to her lips. “How can I?” Just as she had known the answer to his question, he knows the answer to hers.

“Once you enter the Institute,” he says, “you must be careful. We will not be able to contact you while you are there, so listen, and listen close. About ten years ago, the Brotherhood began recruiting civilian scientists from the Capital Wasteland to assist with various projects. During this process, we were able to obtain the services of Doctor Madison Li, a noted mind in the field of nuclear engineering.” He does not heed Ashley’s words, or her warnings. Liberty Prime is their only solution, and they need Madison’s help. “Her contributions were… instrumental.”

“To?”

“Maintaining order. Maintaining control.” _And we both know how important control is to me,_ he thinks. A similar thought crosses Eleanor’s mind, a smile twitching on her rosy lips. “She exiled herself to the Commonwealth. We’re fairly certain that her intent was to make contact with the Institute. We need her back, whatever it takes.”

“I’ll do my best,” she says.

“You never do anything less.”

Lips press together, a frown passing over her features. Tentative eyes meet his own. “Not quite true. If I never did anything less, I wouldn’t make mistakes.”

“And you’ve made mistakes, have you?”

“Yes,” she says softly, “I do believe I have.” She glances over his shoulder at something behind him. “I have to get going.”

“Eleanor?” he says. Her name feels heavy on his tongue. For fourteen days, he has referred to her as nothing but her surname, or her title. She pauses mid-stride, turning back to look at him. “Don’t let anything they say sway you from your duty. We need you.” _I need you. Come back alive._

But she just flashes him one of her dazzling smiles. “I wouldn’t dare to disappoint you, sir,” she says, fist over her heart in a salute that he mirrors.

The platform in the centre of the lounge crackles with blue electricity that arcs between metal struts. Eleanor holds a hand in front her eyes, shielding them from the bright light as she steps onto the raised platform of the Signal Interceptor. The machine begins to whir, and the white noise that follows it almost deafening. The light becomes even brighter, until in a flash of pure white light, the machine falls silent.

And when Arthur opens his eyes, Eleanor has disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Arthur waits for news on Eleanor's return, but the news he gets is hardly good news.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

They had known that they would not be able to contact the General once she stepped into Institute territory, and Eleanor isn’t known for her communication skills, but the complete, and total absence of contact from her is nothing short of worrying. The Signal Interceptor is risky enough as it is, and they didn’t dare try to send someone else with her, which makes him all the more anxious. She’s alone in enemy territory— _if she even managed to survive the trip, which they cannot confirm_ —armed with only what she could carry on her. She has killed a Courser, and God knows how many Gen 1 and Gen 2 synths. Hell, by the time the Brotherhood manages to get into the Institute, there might be nothing left of them.

Eleanor’s companions had quietly dispersed in her absence with the unspoken agreement that Maxson would contact them if she reappeared. Preston Garvey had taken the Minutemen and the brahma back to the Castle, and Valentine had headed off in the direction of Diamond City with a tip of his hat. Danse had fallen back into his usual routine on the Prydwen, taking the early morning patrol shifts that no one else wanted. The Paladin spends his evenings assisting Ingram with Liberty Prime, though Arthur’s certain he has no idea what the Proctor is saying. Still, Danse is good at following orders, and is built like a yao guai, which allows him to haul massive hunks of metal around with little effort.

And Arthur…

Arthur waits.

He doesn’t have the luxury of sitting around with his fingers crossed, counting down the seconds until she returns. He knows it isn’t just because he’s worried about the state of their alliance. He doesn’t even try to lie to himself about it; there’s no point, he knows the truth.

If Eleanor returns successful, and he prays that she does, they must consider their next move on the Institute. He knows her well enough that he’s certain she won’t spill the Brotherhood’s secrets even if they torture her. She would sooner die than condemn countless innocents. Still, he’s glad that the Brotherhood operates in a far more militaristic fashion than the Minutemen, using ranks to segregate information in case of a breach. She doesn’t know about Liberty Prime, and if the worst comes to pass, if the Institute manages to break her, the Brotherhood will be safe.

He can’t afford to spend every waking moment thinking of her, as much as he wants to. Hell, he can almost see her face every time he closes his eyes.

Arthur leans against the railings separating the observation deck from the angled windows looking down at the bay, toying with a fraying thread from his charcoal coloured gloves.

“We’ll need to work with the Minutemen,” Proctor Teagan says from behind him. “They’ve got supplies we could use. Supplies we _need_.”

“And they need them just as much as we do, Proctor,” Arthur says. He vaguely remembers Eleanor saying that Teagan had suggested stealing supplies from her settlements. “You will pay them for the supplies.”

“Part of our alliance with them was food in exchange for protection. With all due respect, sir, why the _hell_ do we have to pay them for something that is rightfully ours?”

“Because, Proctor Teagan,” Arthur pivots on his heel, icy blue eyes flashing, “I would rather not have to explain to General Ridley why her men died of starvation because we stole their food. Would you?”

Teagan had seen Paladin Gunny after Eleanor had finished with him. Even weeks later, Gunny is still healing from his injuries, and Cade doubts that the Paladin’s broken nose will ever fully set properly. Teagan’s scowl deepens. “I would not, sir.”

“Then might I _suggest_ that you pay them what they’re owed,” he hisses. The Proctor has the sense not to question him any further than that, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he grinds his teeth. The Elder looks to Ingram. “How close is Prime to completion?”

“Do you want to be reassured, sir, or do you want the truth?” Ingram cracks a small smile at her own joke. “Truth is, sir, not nearly close enough. He has no power, no weapons. Hell, his limbs ain’t even attached to his body. So even if he had the power to walk, he wouldn’t be able to take his first step.”

“We need Li back,” Proctor Quinlan says in his usual grumble. “I presume you briefed General Ridley on trying to get her back?”

“I did. She swore to try her best.”

“From anyone else, I’d be doubtful, but I’ve seen her get results when no one else could.” Quinlan adjusts the position of his glasses, taking care not to smudge the lenses. “Impressive, that girl is.”

Teagan speaks in a voice that is barely audible, saying under his breath, “I don’t think anyone’s in doubt about how impressed our Elder is by young Miss Ridley.”

The room goes so quiet, he would be able to hear a pin drop. Quinlan and Ingram share exasperated glances. The bearded quartermaster has been reprimanded multiple times before for his lack of propriety, and his behaviour has almost come to be expected from him.

Arthur doesn’t bat an eyelash, lighting his first cigar since his first meeting with Eleanor. He lets out a breath of cloves-and-cinnamon flavoured smoke. He closes his eyes, focusing on inhaling and exhaling. “Is that a problem, Proctor?”

“She isn’t exactly Brotherhood material, is she, sir?”

“No,” he agrees. “Because she’s the General of the Minutemen before she’s a member of the Brotherhood.”

Teagan lapses into silence, his displeasure still written across his features. He knows his place, at least. As much of a nuisance the quartermaster is, the Proctor is a necessary evil. He’s impertinent, but he’s managed to keep everyone fed for several years now, and always seems to have a steady stream of supplies. He can put up with a little bit of frustration now and then, if it means that his men live long enough to see next year.

“I meant to ask General Ridley,” starts Ingram. Arthur wonders when they had all agreed to stop referring to Eleanor by Knight Ridley, “if she had the resources necessary to construct the electromagnetic actuators we will need to give Prime back his limbs.”

“What do you need?” asks Teagan.

“Steel, screw, circuits, rubber, fibre optics… All things we should have down at the airport, but we need four high-powered magnets on top of it all, and we sure as hell don’t have those.”

“I could order the scribes to keep an eye out,” Quilan suggests.

“Thank you, but it won’t be necessary. I have an idea as to where they are already, but they are not in places I would feel comfortable ordering our men to go. There is a certain level of… discretion required for this mission. The Institute will become suspicious if they hear that we’re collecting these magnets. I know that there’s at least a handful in the Mass Bay Medical Centre, but it’s overrun with super mutants, and we’ll need someone who get in and out without drawing too much attention to themselves.”

He doesn’t need Ingram to explain further to understand her request. “Absolutely not.”

“Sir, I do not think we have much of a choice,” Ingram says. “Our paladins are busy dealing with the Institute, you’ve ordered most of our knights to protect the Minutemen while they gather supplies—an order I wholeheartedly agree with—and we can’t just send an initiate into enemy territory to complete a highly confidential task.”

“We are _not_ asking Ashley for help.”

Quinlan hums to himself, studying his cuticles in quiet disinterest. “Might I say, sir, that I agree with Ingram on this?”

“You may not,” Arthur says, scowling. “Ashley isn’t a member of the Brotherhood, nor is she a civilian who has offered us her services. Not to mention, the primary reason she came to the Commonwealth was to warn me that if we used Liberty Prime against the Institute, we’d face her personal wrath.”

“So don’t tell her,” Quinlan says. “She doesn’t need to know. Tell her it’s for the Prydwen. Tell her we’ll get out of the Commonwealth faster once we defeat the Institute if we don’t have to spend weeks looking for electromagnetic actuators.”

“You’ve _met_ Ashley, right?” Teagan says. “If she finds out we’ve lied to her—”

“—she’ll blow the Prydwen out of the sky,” Arthur finishes with a sigh.

“But if she fails,” Quinlan isn’t deterred by either of them, “she’s got no official connection to the Brotherhood. The Institute won’t look to us. Is she not with the Railroad now?”

The Elder takes another drag from his cigar. “As far as I can tell, she’s got some sort of working partnership with them. I don’t know if she’s working _with_ them, or working _for_ them. In all likelihood, they’re working for her without even realising it. I can’t imagine she would get along with their leader. Desdemona is very… single-minded. And so is Ashley.”

“It would be bad for us if they were,” Ingram murmurs. “The Railroad isn’t large enough to pose too much of a threat, but if they started using Ashley’s name to recruit others to their cause?”

Teagan snorts. “Please. Ashley’s ensured that her name is not associated with her deeds. No one around here even knows if the Lone Wanderer is male, or female, least of all what her name is. She made that sacrifice when she wanted anonymity. Even if the Railroad claims that they’re working with the Lone Wanderer, who’s to say anyone would believe them? Ashley isn’t exactly charming enough to get people to believe that what she’s saying is true.”

“That’s not the point.” Ingram sweeps her jagged fringe back away from her eyes, letting out a breath. “Even if they have no proof, people will still flock to her to help. There’s got to be people here who have family in the Capital Wasteland. They’d have heard the stories. And sure, she’s not exactly the _nicest_ of people, but she gets shit done. More important than being nice sometimes. So we have to be careful.”

“Or we don’t recruit her,” Arthur mumbles.

“Elder Maxson, sir, I don’t think we have many other options.” He knows that Ingram’s right, as much as he wants to deny it. “Plausible deniability—that’s what we need. She can provide us with that, and as long as she’s working with us, she isn’t working with the Railroad. You said General Ridley’s codename in the Railroad used to be Wanderer? It wouldn’t be hard for them to rebrand the General’s accomplishments, and say that Ashley had done them.”

He grins his teeth as he thinks. He isn’t beyond using people as a means to an end, and Ashley is no exception to that rule. Sometimes the greater good is more important than a singular person, and Ashley cannot possibly hate him more than she already does. He winces as the cigar burns a little too close to his bare fingertips, and drops it into a nearby ash tray.

“Is she still in Diamond City?” he asks.

Quinlan checks his clipboard, running his pointer finger across the written notes. Damn him, Arthur thinks, he knew that they’d have to talk about Ashley. “Most recent reports say that she is,” he says. “She leaves in the morning, but returns every night to retire.”

 _Fuck me, this is a bad idea,_ thinks Arthur. “Contact her. Tell her we’ll pay.”

“Will we actually pay her?” Teagan raises one, thick black brow.

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur says sharply. “We will.” The Proctor raises his hands at his words in something akin to surrender, finally deciding to concede. “And what of arming Prime?”

“We’re scouting several locations,” Ingram says. “I’ll update you if we find anything.”

He nods. “Then I do believe that concludes this meeting. Proctor Ingram, I must speak with you. Alone.” He turns back to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Quietly, two sets of footsteps shuffle out of the room. Then, in a low voice, “Did you look into what I asked you to?”

A sigh comes from over his left shoulder. “Yes, but you really should ask Quinlan. He’s the head of the Order of the Quill for a reason, you know.”

Her amused frustration makes him chuckle, as bitter as he might be. “I’ve been harassed enough already for my… personal pastimes with General Ridley.”

“You say ‘personal pastimes’ like Kells’ room isn’t right next to yours, and he hasn’t stopped complaining about how loud you are for weeks.” A matter to be addressed at a later date, he decides. Though he certainly isn’t going to offer the Lancer-Captain an apology. “But yes.”

“And?”

Hydraulics hiss as Ingram leans against a nearby wall, trying to relieve the pressure on her severed limbs. “Sir, I know you care about Ridley, but it’s… It’s been two weeks, and we haven’t heard a word from her.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw; Arthur knows exactly how long she’s been gone. Hell, he’s practically been counting the days. “Eleanor is more resourceful than you might think,” he says. “And that isn’t what I asked you to report to me on.”

Another sigh, but this time it’s angrier, and a little more frustrated than it is resigned. “Maxson, if I had caught wind that Ridley was back, I promise I’d let you know. There’s only so much I can do without being out there myself, and since you have _refused_ my requests to be allowed back into the field, I’m relying on eavesdropping. Quinlan could send out scribes to look for her—”

“—but I didn’t ask _Quinlan_ to help me, now did I?”

“Fuck’s sake, Arthur.” Ingram isn’t a particularly angry woman. She’s passionate, and she’s what some people would call fiery, but compared to Eleanor, she is a rad rabbit. “I know you care about her, but you can’t let this make you delusional.”

Does she truly think that he’s delusional? He agrees that his worrying helps no one, and is a constant distraction from his work, but delusional? “I won’t,” he says. “But I’m concerned.”

“I know you are,” she breathes out, and there’s a slight _thunk_ as she leans her head back against the wall. “I promise to let you know if I hear anything beyond rumours and conjecture. We can’t go chasing down every lead that we hear. Do you know how many women have green eyes and blonde hair there are? More than you might think. The best thing you can do is get some rest, and focus on work.”

His shoulders sag with defeat, and he dismisses the Proctor with a wave of his hand. He doesn’t follow her out, lingering behind for a moment longer. Ingram is right. It’s been two weeks. She might very well be dead.

But _God_ , he hopes that she isn’t.

It’s almost midnight by the time he retires for the night. Exhaustion almost overwhelms him, and when he collapses onto his bed, he’s so bleary-eyed he almost doesn’t notice his terminal blinking with a new message. Cautiously, he swings his legs out of bed, not wanting to get his hopes up as he makes his way over to the terminal.

He doesn’t even bother to sit down.

> _Prydwen Internal Network_
> 
> _Mail Terminal Maxson MX-001E_
> 
> _Fr: [UNKNOWN SENDER]_
> 
> _To: Elder Maxson_
> 
> _Don’t even fuckin’ know if this will reach you. Never tried to contact the Brotherhood before. Just goin’ off of what I found in El’s Pip-Boy. Look, I wouldn’t contact you if you weren’t needed, but shit, Garvey wasn’t responding, and if what I’ve heard of you is true, then I need your help. It isn’t every day the General of the Minutemen shows up on your doorstep, bleedin’, and high as a motherfucking kite. I’ll be keepin’ an eye on her at the Old State House._
> 
> _\- Mayor John Hancock of Goodneighbour [insert a few other bullshit titles here:    ]_

Arthur almost lunges for his coat. He doesn’t care about how tired he is. Sleeping will have to wait. He checks to ensure that he has enough fusion cells for his laser rifle, and runs out the door, chasing down a knight on patrol who knows how to fly a vertibird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I love Hancock, and I was wary of including him in this because I was terrified of getting him wrong, but hell, we're not canon compliant anyway, so why not go all the way. And I'm not even making excuses when there's a few reasons Hancock's a bit different than he is in-game.
> 
> Next chapter: Another trip to Goodneighbour, and a talk with a certain Mayor.


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Hancock and Maxson have a talk about the nature of Hancock's relationship, or lack thereof, with Eleanor. Minor Hancock/Sole Survivor.

Goodneighbour is not any nicer than the last time he had visited; the settlement is just as grimy it was the last time, with more than a few unsavoury characters milling about, conducting business under the cover of night. He tears through the front gate like a radstorm, pushing his way past the guards with nothing more than a sharp glare when they protest. He has the look of a man who has nothing left to lose, and is more than willing to take down anyone who tries to stop him. They have the sense to let him pass without anything more than a mumble of displeasure.

He had passed the Old State House the last time he had visited, walking straight past it on his way to the Third Rail, but he veers towards it now. A couple of armed guards scowl at him as he bursts through the doors, eyes wide and manic.

“Hey, now,” says a woman with flame-red hair, and a large scar marring the right side of her face. She steps towards him, eyes flashing. “State your business, or we’re gonna have to take this outside. Can’t come storming in here, and expect to not be treated like a threat.”

He doesn’t even care that she’s holding a shotgun tightly in both hands. “I’m here for Eleanor.”

She lowers her gun. “Ah. So you’re Maxson then. Name’s Fahrenheit.” She jerks her head towards the spiral staircase in the centre of the room. “She’s upstairs. Hancock and Mac are keepin’ an eye on her.”

The Old State House still holds traces of what it used to be before the War; display cases, glass long since shattered, still proudly present fragmented antiques from the Revolution. Semi-circular bunting in red, white, and blue hangs on the walls, fabric long since stained and faded with time, but someone seems to have darned the holes in an attempt to preserve them. Even the wooden floors are uncharacteristic for what was popular when the bombs dropped, if the ruined houses in the Commonwealth are anything to go by.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. I was half expectin’ you not to show up.”

Ghouls are, as a rule of thumb, not the prettiest thing to look upon. Most of them are feral, turned into mindless, shambling corpses by radiation with glowing eyes. The ghoul standing before him, however, still holds traces of the handsomeness he— _since when had he started referring to ghouls with human pronouns?_ —had possessed before he had been turned into the radiation-scarred creature he is now. There is a sharpness to his squared jaw, and his all-black eyes still have some blue where his irises had once been. He lacks all hair, eyebrows included, but his brow furrows over his dark, intelligent eyes nonetheless.

He wears a strange, colonial getup that would be dated even to the pre-War Eleanor. A tattered red velvet coat hangs from around his shoulders, contrasting with the faded blue vest he wears beneath. The frilly collar of his shirt brushes against his jaw as he cocks his head to the side, a faint smile twitching upon his thin, scarred lips. He toys with a knife, digging the point into the tip of his forefinger idly.

“Mayor Hancock, I presume?” It’s a question Arthur doesn’t need to ask. Eleanor has mentioned him so many times that, for a stranger, he is almost familiar. He even sports an old tricorn hat, and a flag as a belt, as he had overheard Eleanor mention in passing.

“Just ‘Hancock’ will do,” he says in a low, raspy voice he has come to associate with non-feral ghouls. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He doesn’t want to deal with the ghoul for any longer than he has to. “Likewise.”

He huffs then, still messing with his knife. “Still, you came. Guess you care about her more than I thought.”

“Was that ever in question?” asks Arthur. The ghoul has no right to doubt him, and the fact that he is anyway makes him grind his teeth.

Hancock studies him for a long moment. “You’re not the only one who cares about her, you know,” he says softly, as soft as a ghoul can speak, anyhow. “She’s a good gal, that Eleanor. My whole motto’s been ‘of the people, for the people’ but she’s a lot better at it than I am. Don’t think it’s ever occurred to her to be selfish, not even once.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m _sayin’_ that love is selfish. It has to be. It is both the most selfish and selfless act there is. Selfless because you’d give anythin’ to see the person you loved happy, but selfish because you want to put the person you love above everyone else, you hear? She’s got the selfless part down, but the selfish part? She’s scared of bein’ asked to choose between what she wants, and what the Minutemen need, cause when it comes down to it, she’s goin’ to have to choose.”

There’s a look in the ghoul’s black eyes that’s all too familiar. He has seen it in his own eyes when he looks in the mirror.

“You love her,” he says, his stomach churning less at the thought than he had expected it to. A year ago, he had been disgusted by the thought of a woman such as Eleanor falling for a creature such as Hancock. Now… now he’s not so certain.

The pain he feels in his chest isn’t disgust.

It is jealousy.

“You got a problem with that? Cause I can assure you that she don’t love me as much she loves you.”

He had never expected to be jealous of a ghoul, but Hancock has nothing to lose, and can admit to his affections for Eleanor without worry. He is the mayor of Goodneighbour, but mayors can be replaced, and he can sacrifice his title to chase after his love. Arthur cannot do the same with the Brotherhood, and neither can Eleanor. But in the end, if they love each other, one of them will have to.

“She loves me, does she?” The words come out bitterer than he had meant them to, his disbelief turning to shock. He wants her to love him, but it would be easier for them both if she didn’t.

“Given that whenever she isn’t hallucinating she’s been asking for you, I’d say so. You and I both know she’s a… ahem, a masochist, but there’s no way in hell she’d put up with your shit if she didn’t love you.” Hancock almost looks feral, his anger contorting his cruelly handsome features, but a bitter smile stretches across his lips when Arthur bristles. “What? You didn’t think you were her first after Nate, did you?”

Hancock’s deliberately trying to be antagonising, and even though he knows this, the ghoul’s words get to him regardless. For a second, he doubts the truth of Hancock’s words, but then he remembers… Arthur had gone over Cade’s notes from Eleanor’s first physical, and under the third question— _has the patient ever had sexual relations with any species considered non-human?—_ Cade had left nothing but a question mark, and a transcript of her response.

_“You mean ghouls? Or mutants? That happens often enough for you to have a question about it? That’s awfully personal, don’t you think?”_

He can almost picture it, as much as he doesn’t want to, but it’s like being asked not to of something, and his mind jumping straight to it regardless. In his mind’s eye, Eleanor’s on her back, looking up at Hancock from under her lashes, and a familiar smirk on her rosy lips. The ghoul runs a hand down her chest, hooking a finger underneath the hem of her shirt, and slowly pulls it up to expose her flushed skin.

 _Fuck_.

Has he kissed her where Hancock had? Did she ever think of him when they were together? Does she ever look back on her days with Hancock with nostalgia, despising the future she’s found herself in?

“Ah, shit, she hadn’t told you yet,” Hancock says under his breath. “She meant to, you know. It was nothing more than a bit o’ fun, I promise you.”

“Doesn’t seem like it, from what you’ve said.”

“Which is why I called it off,” he growls. “I fell in love with her, and she didn’t feel the same, but I ain’t the kind to go chasing after a woman who wants nothin’ to do with me. Not sayin’ I’d turn her down if she started chasing _me_ down. If I love her—and I do—I’m not gonna stop just because she don’t love me back. So I respected her wishes, and backed off. Didn’t want it to affect what we got. ‘Sides, if she wanted this to last more than a couple of decades, I know she’d try to find a way to make herself go ghoul, but I ain’t puttin’ her through that. She’s worth more to me than that. Still, I think it’s the same sort of shit with you. You gave her space, didn’t you? She came ‘round to Goodneighbour a while back ‘looking for supplies’ but she had a hollow look in her eyes. Crew Cut didn’t want to say anythin’ about it either. Somethin’ about ‘disrespectin’ the Elder.’ Your paladins need to get the sticks out of their asses sometimes, you know that?”

He was going to ask who Hancock meant by Crew Cut, but it isn’t necessary. “Danse is… like that, sometimes.”

Hancock lifts his one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Nah, I get it. He worries about her too. Says he’s her mentor, and all that, but they’re good friends. Now, you done interrogating me? Do you want me to come up to your giant fuckin’ metal balloon in the sky to answer some question? I promise ya, if you’ve got words for me, I’ve got some for you. Plenty of folks wanna make life hard for people just tryin’ to survive, and El’s tryin’ to change things. She was the best damn thing that ever happened to the Commonwealth, to _me_ , and I’m willin’ to bet to you to.” He points his knife at Arthur’s throat. “You fuck with any of that, and let’s just say that I’m not willing to stand for that kinda shit. Got that?”

If he had been told a year ago that he was going to be threatened by a ghoul ex of his— _lover? Sounds too romantic, but Eleanor isn’t his girlfriend either, now is she?_ —he would have laughed. Laughing doesn’t even cross his mind now. He pushes his shoulders back in an attempt to seem a little more intimidating, but compared to the ghoul in front of him, he’s about as frightening as a squirrel. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbles.

“You damn well better, because I don’t give a damn if you’re armed to the fuckin’ teeth, or if you’re not even in the goddamn Commonwealth. If you hurt El—physically, emotionally, whatever—I’ll have to kill you, and nothin’ will stop me. I don’t care if it’s an accident, or whatever. She deserves more than that sort of bullshit.”

There’s a fire burning behind his pitch black eyes, and Arthur knows that he means what he says. “You really love her, don’t you?” he asks quietly, repeating his earlier question.

“Yeah,” says Hancock, “I do. It ain’t been an easy road, but for her, I’d walk it all over again.”

As much as he wants to hate Hancock— _he had always been particularly susceptible to jealousy_ —he can’t. He hated Ashley for “stealing” Sarah from him, but Sarah’s was never his in the first place, and Sarah had resented him for treating her like a commodity. He won’t make the same mistake twice. This is all too familiar, and he knows Hancock’s pain intimately, even if the ghoul tries to hide it. But, as to be expected, Hancock is far more mature than ten year old Arthur.

So no, he doesn’t hate him. To some degree, he almost admires him. He wishes he’d had the sense to try to be respectful about Sarah all those years ago. Instead, he’s left with Ashley’s heartbreak, and Ingram’s grief, and the knowledge that he, ultimately, was responsible for Sarah’s death.

All because he’d been a fool who had run into danger, hoping to impress her, and she had paid the price for it.

 But as he had been told time, and time again, Eleanor isn’t Sarah, and he won’t let her become her either.

So, silently, Arthur nods, because what can he say that Hancock hasn’t already? He’s right. Eleanor’s the best damn thing that’s happened to any of them, and Desdemona is wrong about a lot of things, but she knew that Arthur— _and the rest of the Commonwealth, for that matter_ —don’t deserve her. Eleanor’s got her own faults—she’s reckless, and violent, and impatient—but she is deeply passionate, and protective of the things she cares about. She doesn’t care if literal mountains stand between her and her goal; she’ll claw through stone with her bare hands if she has to.

“Do you love her?” asks Hancock.

_“Do you love her?” Danse knew the answer to his own question, but he asked regardless, his brows set in a line over warm brown eyes._

_“Yes,” he replied. “I think I do.”_

This time it isn’t in question. His answer is absolute, and he finds himself nodding. “Yes.”

“Good.” Hancock lowers his knife. He doesn’t bother sheathing it, tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat instead. He removes his tricorn hat, running a hand over his bald, scarred head. He scratches at the nape of his neck. “Cause I wasn’t gonna let you in to see her if you said no.” He jerks his head towards the hallway behind him. “This way. Keep up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the first to admit it--a lot of Hancock's lines are rephrased from his affinity and romance scenes, as well as a few generic lines he has depending on said affinity. Also this entire sequence was 100% self indulgent, but if Bethesda thinks I can refuse a ghoul who stabs a man in front of me because he dared to threaten me, they're absolutely wrong.
> 
> Next chapter: the real reason MacCready's been avoiding Maxson, and some fun drug hallucinations. ~~Is it inappropriate to describe almost OD'ing "fun"? It's fun from a writing perspective, at least.~~


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which goodbyes to ghosts are said, and almost-questions are almost-answered.

The room has been rather haphazardly cleared to make a makeshift private area; sofas and tables have been pushed to one side of the room to make space for the queen sized mattress in the middle of the room. The blankets had long since been kicked off by the bed’s inhabitant, crumbled up in a ball alongside the mattress, but the beige sheets are drenched with sweat, and stained with traces of dried blood. A woman hides her face in the mattress, blonde hair sticking to her sweaty skin.

Medical supplies are scattered about the room, scraps of bandages abandoned as tidiness was sacrificed in exchange for the sake of saving time, and several empty bottles of vodka have been carelessly tossed about. He doesn’t know if people had drunk the contents, or if the alcohol had been used as a disinfectant.

A man with light brown hair tends to the woman, fretting over her form with a can of purified water in his hands as he pleads with her to drink something. She lifts a limp hand, and almost knocks it out of his hands.

“No luck, Mac?” Hancock sounds far too amused for someone who had just threatened to kill Arthur a minute ago. “She’s a stubborn one.”

MacCready shoots a glare at the Mayor, blue eyes narrowing. “Hadn’t noticed,” he says, voice dripping with friendly sarcasm. His gaze drifts over to Arthur for a second, lips pursing, before he turns back to Eleanor on the bed, setting the can of water alongside the mattress. “I see we have guests, Hancock.”

Hancock chuckles under his breath. “Hadn’t noticed,” he says, throwing MacCready’s words back at him. “Arthur Maxson, Robert Joseph MacCready. Call him Robert Joseph though, and you might get a bullet between yours eyes. He’s been tendin’ to El. Hell, he’s the one who brought her here after he found her at Goodneighbour’s door, bleedin’ out.”

“We’ve met,” he says, and Arthur remembers a face vaguely like his, but cannot put his finger on it. Then, “The Watch would’ve brought her here.”

“Ah, take the credit, Mac,” Hancock says, still smirking. “How’s she doin’?”

MacCready shoots Arthur another strange look before getting to his feet, wiping his brows. “Better,” he says, turning to face Hancock as though deliberately trying to avoid talking to Arthur. “Bleeding’s stopped thanks to your stitches. She’s a little bit more lucid now, but not by much. You should’ve sent for Curie instead of him.”

The ghoul shrugs. “Should’ve, yeah, but she didn’t ask for Curie, now did she?”

“She also asked for Nate, but you don’t see me running to go dig him up, now do you?”

“Probably because that would just make this worse,” Hancock says, eyes following Arthur as the Elder takes tentative steps towards Eleanor. “Seein’ as how that’s what got her in this state in the first place.”

Eleanor looks like a mess; her eyes are scrunched shut, cheek pressed into the mattress, but her skin is mottled with fresh, purple bruises. She lacks a top, and instead has several layers of gauze wrapped around her chest and abdomen, splotches of crimson marking the fabric where blood had leaked through. She would appear peaceful, if not for the shiny sheen of sweat across her skin, and the tremor that wracks her body.

Arthur swallows. “What happened?”

“Dunno,” Hancock says quietly. “Hasn’t said much since she got here. Managed to gather through a couple rumours that she showed up in Sanctuary a week back, and disappeared into Vault 111. Came back out with a body wrapped up in a cloth, and buried it in the backyard of her old house. We assume it was her husband. Then, she just disappeared, apparently. Showed up on the doorstep, bullet wound across her stomach, and bruised something fierce. So high she couldn’t walk straight either. Took six men just to get her up here, but she hasn’t left the bed since.” He pauses. “Nick said she got into the Institute. You didn’t have anythin’ to do with that, now did you?”

He presses his lips together. “It was her idea,” he says. He isn’t certain if he’s trying to excuse his decision to allow her, or her decision to go. “I have no idea how she came back. They don’t have a front door.”

“Yeah, I heard they used a teleporter, or somethin’.” Hancock runs a hand over his face. “She’s back now, and she won’t be dyin’ anytime soon thanks to Mac over here.” MacCready bristles, and it doesn’t escape the ghoul’s notice. “You alright there?”

MacCready doesn’t meet Hancock’s eyes, staring down at the roll of gauze he had picked up, fiddling with the cream coloured fabric. “Just thinking about Lucy.” He looks up, but not at Hancock. His blue eyes seem to bore into Arthur’s very soul. “And how she died.”

It had been years, but he has seen that look of agony in those same eyes before. He had almost forgotten. To him, the encounter had been nothing but another day in the Capital Wasteland, but to MacCready, it had been the moment that changed his life.

He remembers a boy of no more than twenty, cradling the head of a woman whose hair was as red as the blood that was pouring out of a wound in her stomach. Nearby, a young child had cried, terrified of the sight of his mother dying before him.

_“Please,” the father begged, on his knees and looking up Arthur and his handful of men. They had no intention of stopping to help them, but they had caught wind that the abandoned town was full of ferals, and the rumours had turned out to be true. Arthur had gone of his own volition to clear the space out with a few soldiers. He had only been Elder for a couple months now, and he needed to get his men to trust him somehow. “We need help. A stimpak, Med-X, anything.”_

_But Arthur just looked down at him, and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We can hardly keep our own men supplied.”_

_And he had walked away without a second thought._

No wonder MacCready is looking at him like he had seen a ghost. When Arthur swallows, and looks down at his feet, the rifleman laughs with bitter amusement. “Ah. So you remember me now.”

“We met in the Capital Wasteland, didn’t we?” he says.

“And you watched as the love of my life died in my arms, yeah.” MacCready doesn’t sound angry as much as he does melancholic. He scratches at the back of his head. “You’re lucky I care about her as much as I cared about Lucy.”

Hancock snorts into the back of his hand. “Shit, Maxson, looks like you keep diggin’ yourself into a deeper hole.”

Arthur ignores him. “I’m sorry,” he says to MacCready.

“Sorry won’t bring Lucy back.” MacCready doesn’t know it, but he isn’t the first person to say such a thing to him. Ashley had said the same about Sarah.

“I know it won’t,” he says, “’and if I could do anything, I promise you that I would.”

MacCready holds the gauze tight to his chest, and nods once. “You can.” He tilts his head towards Eleanor. “Take care of her for us. Let Lucy be the last one.” He walks past Arthur, shoving the gauze into his hands as their shoulders collide. He grabs a hat off of a table, securing it on his head. “I’m going to go get some sleep. Contact me if anything changes?”

“Naturally, Mac,” Hancock says as the rifleman excuses himself with one last pained look at the Elder. “Maxson, do you…?”

“I’ll watch her.”

“She almost OD’d earlier, but I gave her some addictol, and she’s stable now, not to mention tired. She should be asleep for most of the time, but if she starts bleedin’ again…” Hancock furrows his brows. “I’m just down the hall. Give me a shout.”

He leaves, and the room is quiet, save for the Eleanor’s quiet whimpers of pain as she sleeps. She shifts and turns restlessly, her brows set in a line, and her eyes scrunched tight. Quietly, Arthur perches on the edge of the mattress, brushing several damp locks of hair away from Eleanor’s face.

“Fuck, Eleanor,” he says quietly, so to not wake her, “I shouldn’t have let you go alone. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t even try to stop you.” He let out a shaky breath. Now that he’s alone, he realises just how terrified he is. He has never been one to pray to a higher being, but he wishes that was. It would be easier to pray for her safety than to try to protect her himself. He knows that she would argue that she doesn’t need protecting, but he would sooner die than see her hurt. Seeing her like this now, cold, and clammy, and trembling, he wants to be sick. “You could have died. Did you know that I almost didn’t say goodbye? Ingram had to convince me. I can never tell what you’re thinking. I thought you might have hated me. I realise now that maybe you thought you were cruel for reminding me of Sarah, but…”

She stirs in her sleep, biting down on her lip in pain. Gently, he reaches over, and pulls her lip away from her teeth before she can harm herself more than she already has.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispers. “An absolute fool, and I want you to know that I never loved Sarah as much I love you.”

Eleanor lets out a small, quiet yawn, her eyes fluttering open. For a second, he fears that she had heard everything he had just said, but her gaze is distant and faraway. “Nate…” she breathes out, reaching out to cup his face with her one, shaking hand. “You came.”

He can still smell the calmex and jet on her breath, cloying and sickly sweet. He gives her a soft smile, uncertain of what he is supposed to do in this situation. “Hey, Ellie,” he says. “I couldn’t leave my favourite girl behind, now could I?”

“You always were a flatterer,” she says, closing her eyes as she fights back exhaustion. A stray tears slips out from under her lashes, and rolls down her cheek. “But… I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” he asks. “Are you going somewhere?”

She laughs even through her tears. “No,” she says. “But you are. You can rest now, Nate. I avenged you, and I found Shaun. Even if the second one is a bit more complicated than it seems. It’s been a year, and I’ve selfishly held onto my memory of you. It’s time I let you go. I’ll be safe, I promise, even though I know you will worry anyway. But I found someone. You would love him, Nate. He’s just as stubborn as you are. But he’s… kind. Caring. Passionate. And he’s an absolute idiot.”

Arthur can’t help but let out a laugh. “It sounds like you care about him.”

“I daresay I love him,” she admits, her green eyes meeting his own. Her pupils are as large as the moon, and almost eclipse her irises. “But I’m scared.”

“Of him?”

“No,” she says, and her words are a relief to hear. “He would never hurt me. Not intentionally.”

“Then what of?”

“Myself,” she says softly. “He looks like you, in the right light, but I never loved you the way I love him. But I look like a woman he once loved too, and she died to save him. I’m a ghost that reminds him of her sacrifice. When we first met, he always looked so sad. I didn’t know why, but I know now, and if I love him, how can I ask him to endure that kind of suffering?”

Arthur’s suspicions were correct. She hadn’t left because she didn’t return his affections, but because she was afraid of causing him suffering. “Does he love you back?”

“He asked me to marry him.” She pauses. “Kind of. Not really. It was implied, but I think it was a question. I almost said yes, but there is so much I still have to do. I can’t just run away with him, as much as I want to. This future… it’s not what I imagined, but it’s what I have. He makes it easy to forget about what it was like before, like this is where I belong. But when this is over… When I can finally lay my gun down, and hang my coat up, I think… I think I might give him an answer to that almost-question. But yes, I think he loves me.”

“Then I am happy for you.”

“Are you?” Eleanor’s eyes are wide and hopeful, though a few tears still linger on her lashes, like dewdrops on blades of grass when the sun has just risen. “I was so scared to love him. I thought it wouldn’t be fair to your memory, but you always wanted me to be happy. I loved that about you. You would have been a great father to Shaun, and I—” Her voice cracks as she starts to sob. “I miss you every day. You were my best friend. And I don’t know how I can do this without you, but I have to say goodbye. So goodbye, my love. Go knowing that no one has cared so much for a single soul as I did for you, and I promise I shall remember you until the day the sun rises in the west, and sets in the east.”

She pulls Arthur downwards, hand on the back of his neck, to press her lips to his forehead before falling back into bed with another yawn, rubbing away her tears on the back of her hand. She no longer shakes, and her visage is no longer contorted in pain.

For the first time, she looks completely at peace as she sleeps, and her lips are still parted with the memory of her final goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is the chapter that inspired this entire disaster. I was walking around Sanctuary, and did a little jet to get some approval from Hancock, and went "hm..." and now we have this absolute disaster that's occupied pretty much every waking minute of my life for a long time now.
> 
> Next chapter: a sober discussion that needs to be had, but has been avoided for weeks now.


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

Arthur wakes to someone gently nudging his shoulder. The room has gone dark, candles long since burnt out. In the shadows, however, he catches a glimpse of honey coloured hair. “Eleanor?” he says groggily, blinking twice to clear his vision. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion had soon overcome him when he had collapsed in one of the sofas. “You should be sleeping.”

“So it _is_ you.” The General almost sounds awed. “I thought I was still high. I figured there was no way you could be here.”

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, shaking off a coming headache. “Why?”

She perches on the armrest, head tilted to one side. He can’t see her as much as he can see where the shadows are darker, the traces of light in the room blocked by her silhouette. “I didn’t think you’d come. I know… I know I asked Hancock to get you, but—”

“Eleanor,” he says, “if you called for me, and I was halfway across the Wasteland, I’d still come running.”

She steps away from him, blindly groping for her Pip-Boy in the dark. A second later, and after a bout of muttered curses, the room illuminates with bright green light as she uses the screen as a flashlight. It makes her look strange, and eerie—like a ghost he would see in the fog that would turn out to be figments of his imagination. The light draws attention to the bruises blooming across her fair skin. She still wears nothing but the bandages wrapped around her upper body, and a pair of shorts that are a little too large for her. Are they Hancock’s? MacCready’s?

She has a forlorn, almost sad smile upon her lips at his words, and she fiddles with the knobs on her Pip-Boy to avoid meeting his eyes. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew more about me,” she says under her breath.

“Is this about Hancock?”

She freezes, but continues mess with her Pip-Boy a second later in an attempt to appear collected. “That would depend,” she says slowly, “on what, specifically, you mean.” Eleanor is still a little clammy to the touch when he reaches out to brush her hair back, exposing the bullet scar on her shoulder. She flinches ever-so-slightly at the touch, but before he can pull away, she places her hand atop his, pressing it to her skin. “Arthur.”

“He told me,” he murmurs. “About him and you.”

“And you aren’t…” She struggles to find the words she wants to say. “Angry? I know the Brotherhood has rules—”

“Since when did you care about the Brotherhood’s rules?” he asks, eliciting a quiet laugh from the blonde woman. “And no. I thought you weren’t going to come back from the Institute. At this point in time, I’m so relieved that you’re alive you could admit to anything, and I’d forgive you for it.”

“Even if I was a synth?”

“Are you one?”

“I don’t believe so, but that’s not the point.”

He hums, thinking. “Yes,” he says after a moment, “even if you were a synth. It would solve our problem, I think. I can’t imagine I’d be allowed to remain an elder if I fell in love with a synth. Though I hear the Minutemen are accepting synths into their ranks…”

She doesn’t seemed as amused by his joke as he is, her gaze downcast, and countenance solemn. “And what if that synth were a human? Would you love her too?”

She can’t bring herself to ask the question on the tip of her tongue, but he knows her well enough to understand what she means. “I think you know the answer, but if you want me to say it out loud, you’ll have to ask the question, rather than simply insinuate it,” he says.

Eleanor leans back, away from him, and for a split second he fears that she intends to leave. Instead, she folds her legs beneath her, and looks down at her clasped hands. “Against all common sense, and ignoring the propriety my status necessitates that I demonstrate—”

“ _Eleanor_.”

She laughs quietly, just as aware of her attempt to procrastinate admitting to the question they both have. “Somehow,” she continues, “I have fallen in love with you, and I need to know before I do some foolish, foolish things that I know I will later regret if you—” He doesn’t hesitate, and nearly falls off the sofa as he leans over to cut her off with a kiss. _Fuck_ but he’s missed her. He used to laugh at Sarah for missing Ashley after the Lone Wanderer had only been gone a day, but he understands now. Eleanor is, without a doubt, the only thing the Commonwealth that makes him feel alive. She melts into his touch, as hungry for him as he is for her, one hand clutching at his hair to keep him from leaving. They part only to gasp for air. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath.

“I love you,” he admits, in awe of the woman before him. “And I hate myself for not telling you that before you went to the Institute.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, because if you had, I never would have gone,” she says, resting her cheek against the sofa cushions, and looking up at him. “And we wouldn’t be here now.”

“You could have died, Ellie.”

“I know.”

“If not in the Institute, then—”

“Arthur,” she says sharply. “I know. I didn’t… I didn’t know how else to handle everything.”

“Is this because you buried Nate?”

_Danse eyed him warily. “Eleanor,” he said, “is holding on by a single thread of hope, and that’s Shaun.” His voice became softer, as though he was frightened. Then, in a whisper, “Everything else, she numbs with nicotine and alcohol.”_

She shakes her head, hiding her face in the worn cushions. “No,” she whispers. “No, that came after. I left him frozen in the Vault, you know, and he was as perfect as the day the bombs dropped. But he’s at rest now. It was his decision to live in Sanctuary, and I think he would be happy to be buried there.”

He doesn’t want to push her, but he’s _terrified_ for her.

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic,” said Valentine, grinding out his cigarette with the heel of his boot, “and damn if Eleanor isn’t something exquisite.” Glowing embers burned on black asphalt, like stars against a midnight sky, but slowly they flickered out, leaving behind white ash and the acrid scent of smoke. “Go talk to her,” the synth continued, “but be careful. Push her too much right now, and she might very well break.”_

“Then,” he asks, cautious, “what came before?”

What caused this? Why had she almost killed herself with jet, and calmex?

She had expressed a desire to have died in Nate’s place, but he does not know if it extends to simply wanting to die. She’s only been in his life for a matter of months, but he cannot imagine a future without her. He can’t put it any better than Hancock already had, but she’s the best thing to happen to any of them in a long time.

And he can’t live without her.

She can read him like a book, taking in the conflict written across his scarred face and inferring the words he cannot bring himself to say. “This wasn’t an attempt to kill myself, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she whispers hoarsely. “That’s not what this was about. The wounds are from some raiders, as are the bruises.”

 “Then tell me.”

She wrings her hands, taking a moment to collect herself. “I found Shaun.” It should be a joyous occasion, but her tone makes it seem anything but. “But he’s… I was frozen longer than I thought, Arthur.” She blinks back tears. “I was told that it’s been ten years since Kellogg broke into the Vault. That was a lie. It’s been sixty. I went it to save my baby boy, and instead I found a man older than I am with greying hair, and looking like my fucking father.” Her grief turns to anger, and she has to press her knuckles against her lips to keep from punching something. Arthur doesn’t know what to say. Danse was right about Shaun being her last, singular hope, and he can see that this has broken her completely. “And it gets even worse, because of all the people in the goddamn Commonwealth, my _son_ had to be fucking director of the Institute.”

Her words feel like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless, and empty. “Shaun?” he repeats, unable to believe what she had heard.

“Yeah,” she says, looking as though she’s about to be sick. Even in the pale green glow of the Pip-Boy, he can see that all rosiness has drained from her cheeks. “My Shaun. Which means if we want to defeat the Institute…” She doesn’t need to finish for him to know the end of her sentence. “What sort of mother has to kill her son?”

“We don’t have to kill him, Ellie.”

“Tell me that, when you look into his eyes, and see the monster he’s become. I thought I could make my peace with it, but he genuinely believes that people aboveground don’t deserve to live. The Institute took my son, and made him into the very thing I’m fighting against.”

He hushes her reassuringly, holding her close to his chest as she fights tears. Arthur kisses the top of her head. Underneath the thick scent of drugs, and alcohol, he can still smell her perfume. He doesn’t know how she manages to maintain such a tiny luxury even after the end of the world. His entire life has been about practicality; function over form, the Brotherhood insists, which is why they’ve got cheap, scratchy blankets in a horrible shade of vomit green, and unscented soap that carries the scent of animal fat. But it’s the little things in life that make it worth living, like watching the sun rise over the horizon, like finding the time to bathe when dirt and grime are commonplace.

Little things, like soap that smells of flowers.

“I’m going to quit,” she whispers. “Smoking, drinking, all of it. This can’t happen again.”

And they sit in silence until the sun rises, him hugging her as tight as he possible can while she weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a good hundred hours in FO4, and never once have I sided with the Institute, let alone completed more than the quest just to get into the Institute, but when I was writing this, I forced myself reload on old save game in order to get far enough to do the Bunker Hill quest, because honestly that conversation on the rooftop with Father if you betray the Institute is one of the best in the game. I also like how he looked directly at Eleanor standing there in her General's coat, and said not to tell the Brotherhood... and then I went straight to the Prydwen and told Maxson. Sorry not sorry, Shaun.
> 
> Next chapter: honestly, I don't know what to say because the big thing that happens next chapter is better as a surprise.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

“Well, damn, Sunshine, you look like shit.” Hancock doesn’t mince words, a lopsided smile on his thin lips as he steps into the room. Both Arthur and Eleanor had fall back asleep, and had only been awoken by people coming in and out of the Old State House as morning quickly turned to the afternoon.

Eleanor is still weak, but several doses of addictol had all but purged all traces of drugs from her system, and after some terrible fits of vomiting during which Arthur had felt completely helpless, she had started to recover. She raises a glass of purified water to her lips with hands that still have a slight tremor to them. “You’re always so nice to me, Hancock,” she says, laughing. “I’m… I’m sorry about showing up here, unannounced.”

“Nah, it’s no problem,” he says, casting a wary glance at Arthur before looking back to Eleanor. “Stay as long as you need to. Anythin’ that’s mine, is yours. I just thought I should come check in on ya, see how you were doin’. Have more stimpaks, if you want them, and new bandages.”

Gingerly, Eleanor touches the bandages on her stomach, just above the wound. “I haven’t checked, but did you give me stitches?”

He snorts. “Yeah. Hope you didn’t mind. I know you tried to stitch yourself up, but you did a… Well…”

“Shit job?”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth, Sunshine,” Hancock says with a sparkle in his eyes as he gestures for her to stand. With an irritated grumble that’s more for show than anything else, she complies. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

“You sound like Curie.”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” he teases, still smirking as he peels the gauze away from bit by bit, taking care to roll it back up in case it can be salvaged. Slowly, Eleanor’s bare chest is revealed, and she’s quick to cross her arms over her breasts in an attempt to preserve her modesty. Hancock only laughs. “Relax, Sunshine. It ain’t nothing either of us hasn’t seen before.”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” she hisses, but her voice lacks venom. “You could’ve given me a bra, or a shirt—something. I’m starting to feel like you planned this.”

“Hey now, if I wanted you to get your top off, I’d ask,” he says, shooting her a wink as she scowls. Arthur can’t tell if he’s being serious. “Mac came round this morning while you were sleeping. Wanted to say that he’ll see you tonight.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Dunno. He was with this angry looking woman from the Capital, had scars running all down the side of her face. She said something about being paid to go look for magnets.”

 _Ashley_.  Arthur pretends he isn’t eavesdropping on their conversation— _but is it really eavesdropping if they’re the only two people talking in an otherwise silent room?—_ and toys with the many zippers of his flight suit in an attempt to appear busy. He had never particularly liked the woman, but seeing her had brought back some unpleasant memories. She seems like she’s on the verge of breaking, her grief having motivated her for almost five years now.

But anger and grief can only fester for so long before they become crippling wounds.

She’s all but been consumed by her memories of the past, and he can still see her haunted, glazed-over eyes as she stormed onto the Prydwen, just to blame him for a mistake that had happened half a decade ago.

 _Is that what Sarah’s death is?_ Arthur asks. _A mistake?_

He was _fifteen_ when she had died. What could he have done? He hadn’t asked her to die for him, and Hell, he couldn’t have stopped her either. Once Sarah had made up her mind, there was no deterring her from her path.

And, fuck, what is she going to do when she finds out that she was complicit in the building of Liberty Prime?

He casts a look at Eleanor as Hancock examines her, the woman’s arms still crossed over her chest. Sheepishly, she smiles, grimacing as Hancock prods at the bright pink wound that stretches from side of her stomach to the other. Stimpaks can do a lot, but they cannot work miracles. Still, the bullet wound has healed enough for it to appear like it’s been there for weeks, rather than mere days. Hancock’s stitches have held, the wiry, black thread pulling at Eleanor’s skin.

She swallows as the ghoul runs his scarred fingers over her sensitive, bruised skin, and if it weren’t for the goosebumps that his touch had elicited, Arthur might have thought that she was in pain. But he knows that look—he knows the parted lips, and sudden timidity all too well.

“ _Ghoul_ …” he growls warningly as Hancock lingers a moment too long over her ribcage.

Hancock ignores him. “Is he always this possessive?” he mumbles, earning a laugh from the blonde General.

“No,” she says. “I think he’s just jealous.”

“And we ain’t even given him something to be jealous of.”

Eleanor shoots a look at Arthur out of the corner of her eye, keeping one arm pressed flush against the swell of her breasts as she presses the knuckles of her free hand to her lips. Heat stirs in his chest as much as he tries to suppress it. “We could change that.”

“ _No_.” On any other occasion, Arthur would have shut up, but he cannot possibly condone this. He doesn’t care that Hancock’s a ghoul— _well, perhaps, a part of him does, but not in this scenario—_ Eleanor’s a grown woman, and she can consent to what she pleases. If she were one of his soldiers, he might have some jurisdiction over her personal life. And while she might be a knight, and she may have sworn allegiance to the Brotherhood, she operates outside of its chain of command.

But a mere twelve hours ago, she was on death’s door.

“No,” repeats Arthur, a little less firm this time. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I can handle a little pain,” she says.

He can picture her the way she had been last night, unconscious from pure exhaustion, but still in indescribable agony as the addictol purged the drugs from her system. He can still see her wide eyes, glazed over with what little jet and calmex was still in her system, the high turning him from the Elder of the Commonwealth chapter to the ghost of her dead husband.

Arthur realises then that he hadn’t told her that he isn’t going to be the Elder forever. If they defeat the Institute, the Western Elders will want him back to take over as High Elder. He can barely bring himself to ask her to leave the Minutemen; how is he supposed to ask her to come with him to the Capital?

He sighs, already dreading the conversation they’ll need to have if they continue down this path. It’s weird to think about the fact that she loves him. What does it mean for them? “I know you can,” he says.

“Then what seems to be the problem?” she asks, dropping her arm to place both hands on her hips. Damn if she doesn’t look stunning, her nipples pebbling in the cool air of the State House. They stand out from her cream coloured skin, a rich, dusty pink that he wants nothing more than to taste, and see just what kind of cries he can pry from her lips. She knows what she’s doing.

He grinds his teeth, thinking for a moment, before he pushes himself to his feet, draping his coat over the back of the sofa, leaving him in nothing but his pitch black flight suit. “She’s quite demanding, isn’t she?” he says, looking to Hancock.

The ghoul hums. “Mm. She’s got quite the mouth,” he says, tilting her chin up to look her in the eyes. “But she’s always been like this.” Arthur sidles up behind her, and she adjusts her posture before he can ask her to, standing at ease with her hands clasped behind her back. Hancock laughs, “Well, I can see you’ve been doing something about it.”

“She has a habit of being insubordinate when she shouldn’t be,” he says, brushing her knotted hair to one side, “and I have an image to maintain.”

Hancock watches, silent, as Arthur idly draws patterns across Eleanor’s bruised back with a gentle touch. “Tell you what, Sunshine,” he says in his ghoulish rasp, “if you bathe, and get all cleaned up, we can talk about getting you dirty again. Don’t mind a bit of dried blood and sweat myself, but it’d be good for your bones to soak a bit, yeah?”

Eleanor leans back into Arthur, her head resting on his shoulder as his hands move to rest on her waist. “Your baths are always so cold,” she mumbles, sounding put-out but not wholly against the idea.

“I’ll have it heated for ya, how does that sound? Get it warm enough that your skin’ll be all pink,” he says, winking as he almost skips out of the room, whistling Magnolia’s _Train Train_.

She lets out a heavy breath, watching him leave. “You two are no fun,” she grumbles.

He kisses the top of her head. “Just looking out for you,” he says, stepping away from only to grab his coat, and set it down around her shoulders. “We’d be lost without you, you see.”

The battlecoat is far too large on her, and nearly drowns her smaller frame, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Did I… Did I hallucinate you as Nate last night?” she asks, grimacing when he casts her a sympathetic smile. “ _Fuck_.”

“You called me an idiot.” He doesn’t hold what she said against him, not really. It had made him come to terms with his feelings for her, as much as he had been trying to ignore them. “You also said why you… left. After I told you about Sarah.”

Quietly, she takes a seat on the mattress, feet pulled to one side as she picks at a stray thread from the sheets. “I won’t lie, almost everything up until when I woke you is a blur,” she murmurs. “What did I say?”

Arthur sinks down beside her, close enough to be reassuring and if she leaned towards him, they would touch, but far enough away to give her some space. “That you were a ghost that reminded me of Sarah’s sacrifice. That when we first met, I always looked sad, and you didn’t know why. That you loved me, and thus couldn’t ask me to endure that kind of suffering.”

She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins. “Yeah,” is all she says, mulling over his words. He gives her a moment to collect her thoughts, sitting in silence as they listen to the clatter of people outside the room. “I was…” she starts. “I was going to tell you that it doesn’t bother me, but it seemed to bother you. Ashley… She is… _was_ Sarah’s lover, wasn’t she? You left her out of your story.”

Arthur nods, silent.

“She seems so…”

“Angry?”

“ _Broken_ ,” Eleanor corrects. “She looks like I did the day I first stepped out of the Vault. Except, for her, it’s been five years. I had heard stories of the Lone Wanderer, you know. I don’t know how much of what I’ve heard is true, but Mac said he knew her once. He said she was the kindest, most selfless soul in the Capital. And yet…”

“Grief does that to people,” he says quietly. “It can break them.”

“And I didn’t want to be the one to break you.” Eleanor’s biting her lip again, leaving behind small indents. Her gaze is downcast, mournful, and she almost seems to be choking on her words. “Nate once gave me his permission to pursue relationships outside of our marriage. We only wed to spare my family the shame of having a child born out of wedlock—as if anyone but our family gave a damn. You already know that I never loved him as anything more than a friend, and before that, I was so preoccupied with getting my law degree to ever fall in love. So when you came along… Shit, how much of a coward do I sound like if I say that I was scared?”

“You aren’t a coward.”

“A brave person wouldn’t look at an incredibly handsome man, to whom you are attracted, and who wants to kiss you, and goes ‘well, time to fucking run away to the Glowing Sea, I guess.’” He barks with laughter, unable to contain himself. Her bitterness is somehow amusing, and his laughter only deepens as she glares at him. “It isn’t funny, Arthur! It’s pathetic!”

Arthur shakes his head, still chuckling under his breath. “Eleanor, a coward wouldn’t run to the Glowing Sea to escape their feelings. A normal person wouldn’t even go there if they were being chased by a Deathclaw.”

“That would be because the Glowing Sea seems to be overflowing with Deathclaws. I saw _four_ when I was there.” She hides her head in her hands. “I’m rambling,” she mutters. “Sorry. I mean, it’s just… It’s hard to think straight around you. When I’m with you, it’s like there’s nothing but you. But you’re hard to look at too. You’re like the sun, I can look at you for quick, brief moments, but if I stare at you for too long, I’ll end up blind, and yet I’m still drawn to you, like a moth to a flame.”

“I know what you mean,” he says, leaning forward to turn over the holotags hanging from his neck. “I keep trying to stay away from you, but I can’t.”

“Then perhaps,” she says after a moment’s pause, glancing sideways at him, “we should stop trying.”

His breath hitches in his throat as he meets her gaze. “You said last night that when this is all over, you would give me an answer to my ‘almost-question.’”

“Yes,” she says.

“Are you saying that you know what you said, or is that your answer?”

She gets to her knees, and turns so she’s straddling him, her legs wrapped around his waist, and her breasts pressed flush against his chest. Her lips brush his own as she leans in close, whispering, “ _Yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit, was that a proposal? Yes, yes it was. Was this chapter also alluding to future Maxson/Hancock/Sole smut? Absolutely, but it's not coming any time soon. (There's a pun there, but I will refrain myself.)
> 
> Next chapter: shared baths, and honestly the happiest chapter thus far, because shit's about to get a lot worse.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which bathtubs are a little less comfortable than beds, but function just as well. ~~It's been ages since the two of them last had sex, whoopsies.~~

Eleanor sinks into the bathtub slowly, toeing the water steaming water as she struggles to balance on one leg. She clutches a worn towel to her chest, her hair pinned up in a knot atop her head, though it’ll have to be let down if she means to wash it. Hancock had left them to their own devices, excusing himself with a stammered apology as the General had removed her shorts. If ghouls were capable of blushing, Arthur is certain he had been a bright red. For all his smooth talk, and his playboy attitude, Eleanor seems to leave him speechless.

The General looks back at him, her eyes wide in awe. “Arthur, it’s _warm_.”

He sits on the closed lid of the toilet, raising a brow. “You wanted it warm, no?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Do you know how long it’s been since I had a warm bath? I’m used to popping a couple Rad-X pills, taking a dip in the lake, and praying to God that a mirelurk doesn’t show up out of nowhere.” She goes to drop her towel, and looks back over her shoulder at him. “Turn around,” she says, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Or cover your eyes.” A laugh bubbles from his lips, but he goes to cover his eyes with his hands. “Or…”

Arthur hesitates. “Or?”

“ _Or_ ,” she repeats with a smile, dropping the towel to the floor, exposing her body completely. “You could join me.” His cock stirs at the prospect, and she throws her head back in laughter as he all but scrambles to start undoing the zippers of his flight suit. He almost rips his holotags off of him, throwing them somewhere across the room for him to find later.

“You are a _wicked_ woman,” he growls, pushing himself away from his seat to stand behind her, her ass pressed right to his stiffening member. He reaches around her as she melts against him, running his hands over her bare skin. “You think I would say no to such an offer?”

The wound on her bare stomach is hardly pretty, but he’s got worse scars, and the marks they wear on their skin serve as proof of all the hardships they have somehow survived. A small patch of ashen hair dusts her mound, practically calling him to cup her folds, and have her come just from his fingers alone.

She lets out a sigh as he secures his lips over the scar on her shoulder, tracing the raised lines with his tongue. “The bath’s getting cold.”

“Forget the bath,” he mumbles against her salty skin.

Eleanor almost shoves him away from her, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “No!” she says. “As much as I adore you, I’m not forgoing my first hot bath in months just to have sex with you on the floor of Hancock’s bathroom!”

“How many opportunities do you think you’ll get to have sex in Hancock’s bathroom?”

“I’m willing to bet as often as I’ll get the chance to have a hot bath, but if I have to choose one of them to enjoy, I’m taking the bath.”

He watches, holding back laughter, as she slides into the bath, the water coming up to just below her collarbone. She moves forwards, knees to her chest, to make room for him, sneaking only a short glance down at his cock now standing proud, and flush with blood before holding his gaze. Water spills over the lip of the porcelain tub as he steps into the tub, Eleanor slapping his shins in an attempt to reprimand him. Out of pure spite more than anything else, Arthur drops down, the sudden impact sending even more water splashing.

“If Hancock,” Eleanor says warningly, as she reclines into his chest, head nestled against his shoulder, “sends me a bill because we’ve caused some irreparable water damage to his house, I’m sending the bill on to you, and I’ll make certain he knows that I had no part in it.”

“No part in it?” he rasps, lips brushing her ear, and sending shivers rolling down her spine. “Darling, you were the one that invited me into the tub.”

She tries to disguise her hunger for him with humour. “Ah, well, you see, you looked so pitiful just sitting there, all by yourself…”

“Trust me, love, I was enjoying the view,” he says, removing the pins from her hair, and sending her golden locks tumbling down over her shoulders. He sets them carefully on the counter, knowing that she guards her bobby pins fiercely, using them for lockpicking as much as she uses them for her hair. At the same time, he reaches for her container of soap on the counter, the scent of lilacs now familiar.

“Mm, I’m certain you were,” she says, eyes shut, as she moves closer to him. He dips the bar of soap in the water, working it to a lather as he gently massages Eleanor’s hair, using a hand to cup some water and pour it over her to wet her locks. She wriggles against him, brushing against his painfully hard member, earning a startled hiss. Eleanor pretends not to notice, but she cannot disguise the smile that twitches at her lips. She lets out a content sigh. “I must say, this was a rather good idea though.”

“I don’t know how clean you’ll be if you keep _moving_ —” This time, his hiss is more of a snarl as she shifts, his cock trapped right between the two rounded cheeks of her behind. “ _Eleanor_.”

“Oh, so we can have sex on the floor, but not in the bathtub?” she asks, light and airy. She cracks open one eye, gauging his reaction. “You’re no fun.”

“The floor was fine because you’d clean up after,” he says, focusing on running his hands through his hair to ignore the growing heat in the pit of his stomach. “But since you chose to enjoy the bath…”

“Now, now,” she says, looking at him fully with a wicked smirk. “I don’t believe I said _how_ I intended to enjoy the bath.” Eleanor shrieks as he sends more water over the side of the tub, and he uses her momentary shock to push her forward so she’s nearly stretched out, the swell of her breasts brushing the porcelain wall. The soap slips from his hands, and he’s distantly aware of it hitting the floor with a dull smack.

The air of the bathroom is startlingly cold compared to the warmth of the water, but he hardly notices it over the pounding of his heart as he leans over to her, taking great care to ensure that she can feel his hardness against the small of her back. “You are,” he repeats, pausing between words to pepper her neck with kisses as she moans beneath him, “a wicked, _wicked_ woman.”

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?” She’s so breathless she can barely speak, having to gasp out her words every time his teeth scrape along her bruised skin.

“I think you know the answer to that question,” he murmurs. “I’ve missed you, Ellie. I’ve missed this.”

A delicious moan escapes her lips as his affections grow more fervent. Her soapy hair brushes his nose with every movement, flooding his senses with the scent of flowers. “You weren’t the only one.”

Her words make him smile, even if she cannot see it. “Turn around for me, and come here,” he says, leaning back against the opposite side of the tub, his arms resting on either side. She complies, as obedient as she always is when he gives her an order she wants to follow.

“You’re steaming,” she says, laughing at the way his water-warmed body reacts to the cold air, but she slowly does make her way over to him. Even more water spills onto the floor, and if he weren’t so entranced by her— _God, but she looks like a dream, damp hair clinging to her wet skin, and her flushed skin mottled by bruises—_ he might have reprimanded her in return for how much she had harassed her. She settles in his lap, his cock trapped between their stomachs.

He toys with a lock of her wet hair as she waits patiently, wondering what his intentions are. There are so many things he wants to do to her, but they only have so much time before the water turns cold, and few of his ideas will be much fun then. Carefully, asking her permission without words before he continues, he traces the curve of her breast where it meets her ribs, and when she nods, he moves his hand further south, reaching between the two of them to crook his middle and ring finger beneath her, brushing her clit with her thumb. She almost bucks against him at the sensation, her lips parting as she fights back another moan.

Arthur hooks one hand behind her, resting on the small of her back to help keep her upright, continuing to rub small circles across her clit. “By the Steel, woman,” he says, almost in awe. “How did I ever come to be so lucky?”

She laughs again, ducking downwards to gently press her lips against his. “I could ask the same of you,” Eleanor says, gasping as he slowly slides one finger inside of her, muscles contracting around him. He gives her a moment to adjust before a second finger joins the first, Eleanor letting out a cry, and gripping his shoulder, her blunt nails digging into his skin. “ _Fuck_ , Arthur.”

He curls his fingers inside of her, still thumbing that sensitive spot that makes those delicious cries fall from her lips. Arthur watches as she struggles to maintain even a fracture of her composure, and decides that, just this once, he’ll let her get away with not keeping eye contact with him. He wouldn’t care if the world ended for a second time right now, truth be told.

She buries her head in his shoulder, groaning against his skin as he begins to move a little faster, taking care to not apply pressure to any of her purple bruises or to her stomach. She’s almost as hot as the water, but he’s too occupied with her small mewls she lets out as she rocks against his fingers to care about bathing.

Eleanor inhales sharply as she comes, clenching down on his fingers, and he quickly captures her mouth in a heated kiss, stealing the air she’d just inhaled from her lungs. She’s almost limp in his arms, her head lolled back as pleasure floods through her.

Had he not been supporting her back, he’s certain she’d have fallen straight into the tub. Her cheeks are red, and it isn’t just from the heat of the water. Eleanor’s chest heaves as she gasps for breath, hardly noticing as he slips his fingers out, quietly rinsing his hands in the water.

She looks like she’s stepped out of rather lewd painting, half of her hair floating in the water as she leans back, her eyes half closed, and eyelashes brushing the tops of her flushed cheeks. Her nipples are hard, and pebbled—though from arousal or cold, he isn’t quite certain. Both, perhaps?

Slowly, she slips from his grip, her eyes scrunched tight as she sinks into the water. Her golden locks writhe as though alive beneath the surface. She remains there for a second, before straightening, water dripping from her nose, and lashes, and hair, and—

His thoughts are cut off as she’s suddenly straddling his waist again, and she has a firm hand pressing him to the wall of the tub. “Arthur,” she says, voice hoarse and needy.

He only smiles. “Tell me what you want, Ellie,” he says, flicking one nipple. “I don’t normally have to ask you to use your words.”

“You,” she says quietly, forehead pressed against his, “are a right prick sometimes.”

 Arthur laughs.

“I need you,” she whines, shifting so the head of his cock is positioned next to her entrance. “Please. Inside of me.”

“And what am I to do then?”

She opens her eyes only so he can see that they flash with a mixture of lust, and irritation. “Arthur, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to—” He doesn’t let her finish her sentence, snapping his hips, and plunging his cock right into her warm, tight sex. Her fingers knot through his hair as she sighs, like she’s been waiting for this.

He wouldn’t be surprised if she had been, and hell, she isn’t the only one either.

It takes her mere seconds to accustom herself to the burn of his length stretching her, and she rocks against him. Arthur’s hands rest on her hips, careful to avoid the bruises— _he’s not against giving her a little pain, if she wants him too, but he won’t inflict, or worsen any injuries_ —as he guides her, coaxing her to take every inch of his member. She fights his grip, desperate to go faster, to go harder, but he refuses to let her take too much control from him.

“You’re everything to me, Ellie,” he says in her ear, relishing the way she clenches around him at his words. “And when this Institute business is over, I want to show you off to every single person in the fucking Wasteland. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I want them to know that they could offer me all the caps in the world, and I’d turn it down just to have one more day with you.”

Eleanor’s breath hitches in her throat. “Sap,” she somehow manages to get out.

“Ah, you know you love it,” he says as her hands drift down from his hair to rest on his chest, one hand pressed over his heart which must be racing like a goddamn stallion for its pounding is so drowning.

“It,” she agrees, “and you. And let me tell you, if you get me pregnant, and run back to the Capital Wasteland without me, I’ll kill you.”

He pauses moving, overcome with laughter, but Eleanor is insistent, and continues to rock against him, her pace a little faster than what he had set. “The Western Elders would beat you to it if they found out I had abandoned a Maxson heir in the Commonwealth.”

“So promise me,” she growls, and he finds his hands being slapped away as she starts to move even faster, chasing her release, and he can feel his balls tightening, ready to spill inside her. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I promise,” he says, meeting her almost violent thrusts with his own. A ragged groan tears from his throat. “I promise you that any child you bear will be my responsibility too. I promise you I won’t leave you as long as I live and breathe.”

She bares her teeth. “I’ll hold you to that, Arthur Maxson,” she says, crying out as he pushes himself off the back of the tub to press her against the opposite side, trapping her beneath him.

“I promise,” he repeats like a prayer against her lips. “I promise.”

His words push her over the edge, and her second orgasm is far more violent than the first. Eleanor cries out his name, not caring who will hear, and he follows not long after, spilling his seed deep inside the woman who had, for reasons he cannot possibly hope to understand, fallen for him.

And he hopes that she knows he means it. Despite everything— _or perhaps, being as stubborn as he is, in spite of everything_ —he has given her his heart, just as she had hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've officially posted all of my back-dated chapters, which means I'm going to take a short break from writing (sorry! But I'm in the middle of job searching right now, and there's a lot I've been procrastinating since I moved back home for the summer ~~I'm broke don't @ me lol~~ , so updates will still be coming, but just a little less frequently. (But damn, do I wish I could maintain a 2 - 3k chapter everyday posting schedule.) 
> 
> Also when I mean short, I mean like, a week-ish, with a few sporadic updates in between. This isn't on hiatus, don't worry. Just need to get some shit done before I can focus on this ridiculously lengthy fic. This was supposed to be _short_. Instead, it's almost 63k. Why am I like this? Who knows! Also, might go back and edit this beast, because I don't have a beta reader, and it's an awful lot of work to write a new chapter, edit an old chapter, and post the aforementioned old chapter in a day.
> 
> I'll be posting updates on my Tumblr (pixelyna.tumblr.com for those who are interested), which is a Dragon Age blog I will warn you, but I may also be posting sketches of Eleanor and Maxson because sometimes I do art in my spare time, and it's a lot easier to draw while I'm out and about, than it is to write 3k of smut (or 3k of angst, for that matter.)


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Eleanor and Arthur return to the Castle.

It feels like an age since they had last visited the Castle, and perhaps it has been. Three months in the Commonwealth is practically an eternity. The garden in the central grounds have doubled in size, and the autumnal harvest has started to come in, with gourds and melons dotting the tilled earth. Eleanor had mentioned trying to convince Garvey to move the Radio Freedom signal tower, and it’s now tucked away in the corner, leaving more room for the garden. The Prydwen is barely visible in the distance, nothing more than a faint grey outline against the blue sky.

“Christ, Eleanor, that you?” Cait hides her relief well, but her steely gaze softens as she takes in the sight of the bruised and battered General. The Irishwoman approaches Arthur and Eleanor tentatively, as though they’re a ticking time bomb that she’s just waiting to go off.

Eleanor smiles at the battle-hardened woman. “Miss me, did you?”

“You ‘ad me worried sick, you did.” She almost sounds angry, but her standoffishness cannot hide the affection she clearly has towards Eleanor. “Run off like that again, and I’ll kill you meself.” Her gaze drifts over to Hancock as he saunters in after them, a dry smile twitching at her lips. “You’re lucky you were in good hands.”

“You know,” says the ghoul, chuckling, “I can’t tell if you’re startin’ to like me, or if that was sarcasm.”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Cait glances over at Arthur, her tone lacking the amused familiarity it had held a moment ago. She scowls. “Maxie. Long time. Word of advice: avoid the east bastion. Nicky’s there with Piper, and if you touch him, I’ll kill you.”

“Actually, I…” He scratches the back of his head, nervous. “I wanted to apologise. To him. I misjudged him, and I should try to make amends.”

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. “Right. Institute replace you with a synth, or…?”

Eleanor shrugs, exhausted and uncertain of what she should say. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m serious,” Arthur says. Valentine had done nothing to earn his ire. He has done nothing but put Eleanor first, and has tried his best to support her while she struggles to come to terms with the new world she’s found herself in. Weeks ago, he had wondered if he is any less machine than Valentine, but he knows now that Valentine has an understanding of what it’s like to be human that Arthur will never have.

“Ain’t nobody doubting that, Bristles,” Hancock says, scratching at his own beardless chin. “I don’t think you could sound like you’re jokin’ if you tried.”

He doesn’t quite know if Hancock means his words as an insult or as a compliment. Knowing the ghoul, it’s likely the former. Arthur ignores him completely, looking instead to Cait. “May I talk to Valentine?”

“You’re talkin’ like you need me permission, but you’re gonna do what you want, aren’t you?”

“Cait, that’s enough.” They haven’t been at the Castle for more than five minutes, and Eleanor already looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. “Get off his back.”

“I’ll get off his back when he takes that flyin’ piece of shite back where it came from.”

“ _Cait_.”

Arthur grits his teeth, frowning. “Do you have a problem with me?”

“Do I?” The Irishwoman throws her head back as she laughs. “You soldier types are all the same—got this whole soldier thing goin’ to your head. Ask me to salute, Maxie, and all you’ll be seein’ is my middle finger.”

Eleanor darts between them just as Maxson takes a step towards her, teeth bared, holding her hands out to keep them apart. “Both of you, that’s enough.” She almost sounds like his mother. “Cait, take Hancock, and… And go… Go find Preston. Tell him I’ve returned. Arthur, with me, if you would.”

Cait snorts quietly. “Arthur,” she repeats, her tone nothing but mocking. “ _Arthur_.”

“Preston,” Eleanor says sharply. “Go. Now. Hancock—”

“I got her, Sunshine, don’t you worry,” the ghoul says, slinging an arm around her shoulders as he guides her away from Arthur. “How’s my favourite ex-junkie doin’, hm?”

Eleanor watches them just long enough to make certain that they’re leaving before she hides her face in her hands, letting out a breath through her teeth. “I miss them sometimes, but other times… Other times I just want to disappear. It would be nice to not have people judging my every action for once, I think.”

He knows what she means. Their ranks are both a blessing and a curse. They have the chance to really make something of the Wasteland, but at what cost? No matter what they choose, someone will judge them for it. Every word has to be carefully chosen, every decision carefully made, and even then, they risk mutiny from the people they fight alongside. One mistake, and everything they make will go up in flames. It’s better to be cynical, to be tactical and logical about everything, and refuse to let feelings get in the way of anything. Facts and truths cannot be argued. Morals and emotions, on the other hand…

“Alas,” he says, “we don’t have that luxury.”

She lowers her hands, shoving one into the pocket of her coat. “I know that look, Arthur,” she says. “What’s bothering you?”

He almost doesn’t want to tell her. “You don’t worry that they’ll judge…?” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence, her sour look telling him that she already knows how it ends.

“They’ll judge, and I think they’ll find that I couldn’t give less of a shit,” she says under her breath. “You having second thoughts?”

“No. No, of course not.” The relief that passes over her features is nothing but reassuring. “I worry about you.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

This time it’s Arthur who shoots her a look, only making her smile. “I’m used to criticism. Ever since I was old enough to walk, people have been judging what ‘Roger Maxson’s heir’ was going to do, and without meaning to make light of your successes, you are rather new at this. And Hancock…”

“ _Hancock_?” she repeats, confused. “What’s Hancock got to do with this?”

“He…” Arthur doesn’t quite want to paint the ghoul in a bad light, “threatened to kill me if I hurt you.”

Eleanor presses the knuckles of her free hand to her lips—a gesture Arthur has come to know over the past couple month. It rarely bodes well. He has come to realise that she only does it when she’s thinking, and never when she’s thinking of simple matters. Her mind is racing as she tries to figure out what to say next, all while maintaining her composure. “Did he now?” she asks quietly.

He doesn’t know if her question is a rhetorical one, and decides to bite his tongue.

_A black fire burned in Hancock’s dark eyes. The ghoul’s features were too scarred to read properly, but he would recognise that fire anywhere. “You really love her don’t you?”_

_Hancock’s voice was raspy already, twisted from years of hard chem use, and mangled by the drug that had turned him into an irradiated inhuman. But his voice cracked as he spoke, and they both knew it wasn’t from the chems. “Yeah,” he said, “I do. It ain’t been an easy road, but for her, I’d walk it all over again.”_

Arthur is reassured by the fact that Eleanor cares for him as much as he cares for her, but the truth of the matter is that Hancock and Eleanor have known each other longer than Arthur’s known her. He does not know how long they were lovers, and how long they’ve been friends since then, but Arthur’s only known Eleanor for three of the twelve months she’s spent in the Commonwealth. Hancock and Eleanor share an intimacy that will only come with time—a familiarity that comes with spending almost every day with someone, and getting to know every single peculiarity of theirs.

“Now I’m the one who knows _that_ look,” Arthur says, his rather poor attempt at humour earning him a snort.

Eleanor smiles, but it’s pained, and she quickly turns on her heel to hide it from him. She gestures for him to follow, weaving her way through the garden that the grounds have become. “There are a million reasons Hancock and I never would have worked out,” she admits, “and if we hadn’t split, then you and I never would have… I digress. I didn’t think he still cared.”

“He seemed rather into the concept of—” He struggles to find the word, trying to be a little more discreet, “—some fun when you suggested it.”

“There’s a difference between physical, and romantic affection.” She pauses in the doorway, looking back at him. “What about you? You never said if you were interested.”

He thinks about it for a moment, and he can almost picture it in his mind’s eye. Eleanor on her knees, cheeks all flushed, and her lips bruised as she takes another man’s cock in her throat. Her eyes would be locked with his the entire time, forcing her to watch as he strokes himself to completion, a visual reminder of what she’s missing out on. They would make her beg for them to touch her, sobbing with relief when they finally complied with her wishes.

And then, _fuck_ , they’d take her until she was all but boneless, melting under their touch, and they would ensure that she wouldn’t be able to walk properly the next time.

Arthur has to cough to hide the sudden hoarseness to his voice. “If that’s what you would enjoy,” he says.

“By the sounds of it,” she says, pulling him through the doorway to press him against the wall, one hand flat against the centre of his chest, “I wouldn’t be the only one enjoying it.”

“We’d have to…” He’s not used to letting her maintain the illusion of control, but her words have got him riled up enough that it’s hard to think straight. “We’d have to discuss specifics. Safe words. Boundaries. Been meaning to have a talk with you about that myself.”

She looks more satisfied than a cat that had got the cream. She presses herself closer to him, and he’s certain she can feel just how stiff he’s becoming beneath the layers of fabric. “You’re having a hard time, aren’t you?” she says slyly. “Not used to me being on top?”

He snaps, and before she can stop him, he has her pressed against the wall. Arthur struggles to maintain his breathing, forcefully inhaling and exhaling lest he forget to breathe altogether. “Don’t test me, Eleanor,” he warns in a low voice. “Remember your lessons?”

She flushes at the memory of him taking her over his knee. “To follow, and to behave, and to be respectful when there is an audience,” she prattles off, and he almost wants to reward her for remembering. Eleanor lifts her chin up, defiantly meeting his gaze. “But I don’t believe we have an audience right now. If you

“You can never just behave, can you?” he murmurs, curling a lock of her hair around his finger. “Why do you test me so? Do you gain pleasure from vexing me?”

“I wouldn’t if you wouldn’t indulge me,” she says. “So? Are you going to indulge me once more?”

“You think I would stop at once more?” He returns her question with one of her own, tracing the outline of his jaw with a blunt fingernail. The choked moan she lets out almost makes him want to take her against this wall, damned be those who might walk those who walk through the doorway to catch the Elder and the General rutting like animals in the hall.

“Arthur,” she breathes out, struggling to keep her eyes open as he runs a hand through her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. He decides that he needs to mark it with bruises to match her other injuries. She leans her head back against the stone wall. “Someone will catch us, and I don’t believe we’ve christened my bed yet.”

“Mm, now I’m torn,” he sighs against her skin. “Could have you here, knowing that someone could walk in, or I could take advantage of the thick walls, and make you beg for me without worrying who will overhear. Or I could go talk to Valentine, as I had been intending. Decisions, decisions…”

Eleanor bites down on her lip to keep from moaning as he thrusts against her, the friction alone making her choke on the air in her throat.  “Arthur,” she repeats in croak, one leg hooked around his waist, and grabbing his shoulders with an iron grip. “ _Please_.”

He sighs, unable to refuse her pleas. She is reluctant to let him go, but let him go she does, her pupils still blown wide with lust. Arthur gestures to the hallway behind them, a smirk upon his lips. “Then lead the way,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven days off to do work I promptly didn't do, whoops, but hey, I'm back. Sorry that this chapter was primarily setting up plot and smut. Next chapter: it's just smut. There's literally no plot to the next chapter. ~~Which, I think, makes up for this chapter.~~


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine [E]

Eleanor and Arthur barely make it through the door to her quarters before he has her pressed up against the wall, his teeth tugging at her bottom lip. The delicate skin caught on a sharp tooth, and a droplet of blood soon began to seep from the small cut, a crimson pearl that he quickly kissed away. It’s been three days since Goodneighbour—he hasn’t bothered to check up on his men, but Ingram knows where he is, and he’s certain she’d contact him if anything was wrong. Three days, Arthur thinks, since Eleanor had decided to quit all her vices cold-turkey.

And yet, she still tastes of Grey Tortoise cigarettes, and smoke, and the Nuka-Cola Cherry she’s been using to stave off her want for whiskey.

He had doubted her when she had first shown up on the Prydwen, unannounced, and unarmed. Even when Danse had personally assured him of her skills, he had doubted her. Now… Now he would give her his life if she asked for it.

She almost rips his coat off of his shoulders, throwing it over to her desk where it knocks over a jar full of pens and pencils. Her own coat soon joins his, and he can’t help but think that the Western Elders would throw a fit if they ever walked into a room to see their coats casually discarded in the corner. _Treason,_ they’d say. _Sacrilege. We cannot trust outsiders, we cannot bring them into our homes, let alone into our beds._

But he finds that he couldn’t care less.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Eleanor says, holding up a hand. He pulls back, cautious, but before he can frown, he catches a glimpse of the wicked glint in her peridot eyes. “I have an idea, but you’ll need to go wait in the bathroom for a moment. I’ll call you out when I’m ready.”

“What are you planning?” he asks warily, her growing smirk not boding well.

She doesn’t respond, shooing him off towards her private bath. What is she planning? He doesn’t look back at her, even as he hears her shuffle around the room, and closes the door behind him. Something in the other room clatters, like glass bottles falling over. Arthur tries not to think about what she might be doing, instead, examining the cluttered bathroom, noting the combat knife atop the toilet with wry amusement. He’s not even surprised, not anymore.

Eleanor has several, half-used bars of her lilac soap sitting in a shallow dish in her shower, as though she couldn’t be bother to finish off an older bar once she made a new batch. Her white towel, now beige with age, is scented with a slightly more citrusy smell, as though she had gone to great lengths to keep it clean with her own handmade detergent. Hell, she even has a toothbrush, and a small tube of pre-War toothpaste sitting on the lip of her sink. All these small, little things that wastelanders wouldn’t care about, but she isn’t a wastelander, and she does care.

Arthur catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, running a hand through his thick, black beard. When they had first met, Eleanor had thought him to be five years her senior. She had said he looked proud, regal, commanding, but he knows that it is because he had looked tired. If she is Atlas, then what is he? She carries the world on her shoulders, and she still yet manages to smile when she looks to the horizon. Even after losing Shaun, after finding out that he is older than both of them combined, after finding out that her _son_ is nothing more than a stranger who shares her blood, she had still seen hope for the Commonwealth. Anyone else would have given up a long time ago.

Atlas was condemned to carry the world on his shoulders until someone volunteered to take the burden from him. Is that him? Is he the one who will offer Eleanor a moment to breathe, and suffer in her stead?

 _Let us shoulder the weight together,_ he thinks to himself, looking in the mirror. _So long as you hold the world up high, I will be there to help bear the weight._

“Arthur?”

Eleanor’s soft voice breaks his thoughts, and he casts one last look at the mirror before exiting the bathroom, fearful of what she’s done in his absence. He steps into her room slowly, as though she would be foolish enough to try to take him by surprise.

 _Heh. Take him_.

He’s too busy chuckling over his own joke to notice Eleanor lounging on the sofa until she coughs politely. Arthur feels like he’s being strangled by the collar of his flight suit, swallowing the groan that wants to fall from his lips. “Eleanor…” he says slowly, eyes raking over the General’s form.

She lounges on the sofa, wrapped in his oversized coat, a bright blue Vault suit barely visible underneath. Her freshly painted lips are as red as the label on the bottle of Nuka-Cola Cherry from which she sips, standing out against the loose curls of her unpinned hair.

He takes back what he said about her not resembling the girl on the Nuka World posters.

She shifts, pushing herself up on one elbow. She had not buttoned his coat shut, and it falls open to reveal that she hasn’t quite zipped her Vault suit up all the way, exposing the unmarked swell of her breasts.

“I got changed,” is all she says, raising an ashen brow.

“I noticed,” he says, choked. All he can picture is her on her knees, bruised lips leaving crimson stains on his cock. And _fuck_ , that Vault suit… He’s never seen her in it before, and the sight is practically _sinful_. It fits her like a glove, hugging every curve, and the cobalt blue only serves to make her straw coloured hair glow. “I am afraid, however, that I did not give you permission to touch my belongings. I’d rather like my coat back, if you don’t mind.”

Eleanor smiles at his words, and slowly gets to her feet. She sets the bottle of Nuka-Cola down on the coffee table, her lipstick leaving behind stains on the straw. His coat slides from her shoulders, and catches on her elbows, drawing even more attention to the rounded swell of her breasts. She doesn’t break eye contact, her hungry gaze on him the entire time. Carefully, she folds his coat, holding it out before her.

“My apologies,” she says, sounding anything but sorry. “I could make it up to you, if you let me.”

Arthur doesn’t reply, taking several, cautious steps towards her. He knows people who would kill to even set eyes upon a woman like here. He had never been particularly attracted to the idea of an innocent Vault Dweller meeting him, the rugged wastelander, though he’s quite aware that countless people are. Until now, he had never seen the appeal in it, but the sight of Eleanor in her skin-tight Vault suit, batting her lashes at him makes him reconsider his stance.

And while Eleanor is certainly a Vault Dweller, she is anything but innocent.

“What,” he asks slowly as he circles her, admiring her from all sides, “would you do to make it up to me?”

She doesn’t move to stand at attention, but her posture straightens under his scrutiny, her eyes following him the entire time. “I couldn’t bear to live with your disapproval,” she says, almost sounding timid, but he knows that she’s waiting to see what he will do. “So I believe I’d do what you want me to do.” There isn’t an ounce of fear in her eyes, just a mischievous glint that makes him groan.

She’s still a little too bruised for him to tie her to the bed, and see just how pretty she looks, her body criss-crossed with knotted ropes as he’s been wanting to do since that night in the Rexford. Hancock’s stimpaks have worked wonders, however, and her purple bruises have faded to a pale yellow, her stomach wound healing significantly faster than it would have without medication.

But as she’s told him time, and time again, she doesn’t want him to be gentle with her.

Eleanor blinks as he suddenly wraps a hand around her throat, applying just enough pressure to let her know that he’s in control. “Stand still, and keep quiet,” he instructs in a low voice. “If you move without permission, if you speak without permission, I’ll stop. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” He doesn’t even have to tell her anymore; she knows what he wants from her, and she’s more than happy to give it.

“Good,” he murmurs, dropping his hand to murmur against the sensitive skin of her neck.

He scrapes his teeth along her collarbone, amused by the choked moan she’s forced to bite back. Arthur casts a glance down at the shining metal zipper of her Vault suit, air hitching in Eleanor’s throat as he bites down on the small tab. His beard brushes her chest as he slowly pulls the zipper downwards. She presses herself into him, begging for any kind of touch, but quickly he stops, growling.

“What did I say about moving?”

She flushes with embarrassment, the colour creeping all the way down to the centre of her exposed chest. Her nipples are only just visible under the parting zipper, dusty pink and hard. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“I won’t give you another warning, Knight,” he chastises, and she sighs with relief as he bites back down on the tab, and pulls it all the way down to where it ends just above her navel. He can almost smell her arousal through the thin layer of fabric, and almost starts to regret taking his time to savour the picture-perfect pre-War woman.

When he stands, her cheeks are bright red, and judging by her clenched fists, she’s trying her best to comply with his orders to stand still, and keep quiet. She watches, silent, as he traces the hem of her Vault suit, running his thumb over the golden foil before sliding his hand beneath the fabric, roughly palming her breasts without warning, and pinching her hardened nipple between two fingers. She chokes on a moan, but does not speak.

“Do you think anyone would believe me if I told them how well you behave in the bedroom?” The question is a rhetorical one, and she keeps quiet. She yelps as he pulls the Vault suit down over her shoulders, his mouth replacing his fingers on her nipple. The fabric hangs from her waist, catching on the rounded swell of her hips. “The Minutemen’s brave, fearless leader who mouths off at every chance she gets, who got into a fist fight with a paladin three times as experienced as her because he insulted her honour. Would they accuse me of lying if I told them everything I’ve done to you? What would Hancock say if I told him I fucked you in his bathtub until the water was so cold your teeth were chattering?” He gives her nipple an experimental tug, loving the way she fought the urge to squirm. “What if I told him that we fucked on his bed not hours after, while he was sitting in the next room?”

Arthur rolls Vault suit downwards, Eleanor stepping out of it when he taps her knee. He groans when he realises that she isn’t wearing anything beneath it. He should have expected it from her bare breasts, but he’s too distracted by just how wet she is, and from nothing but a few words, and several careful touches.

He can’t hold himself back. Screw being patient, he’s never had much patience to begin with, and how can he keep himself away from her? She laughs as he forgoes any attempt at maintaining his composure, still giggling even as he almost tears his trousers open, throwing his clothes across the room. “Touch me,” he orders, and it’s difficult to get the words out through the lump in his throat.

“Where?” she asks.

“ _Everywhere_.”

Slowly, in an attempt to spite his growing hunger for her, she raises her delicate hands to his chest, tracing the outline of a rather jagged scar running across his chest from the Deathclaw attack that had nearly rendered him blind. Her touch trails downwards, lingering where his black hair is the thickest. He’s always been rather hairy, though few people had ever complained about it, Eleanor included. She places one hand on one side of his chest, fingers splayed over his ribs before she places her cherry lips over his heart, leaving behind a smeared stain. She continues, moving ever downwards, and following the curves of his muscles, stopping just above his proudly hard member. She places a gentle kiss on the side, leaving behind a perfect cherry-red mark, and wipes away the pre-come beading at the head with her thumb.

And then she takes her thumb right between her crimson lips.

His mouth crashes against hers, backing her up against the sofa she had been lounging upon. She braces herself against the armrest, neck craned back in order to put herself at his level. He has no doubts that his lips are now as red as her own, her lipstick smeared across the lower half of his face from the force of his kisses. The taste of Nuka-Cola Cherry had been faint before, but its sickly sweetness has coated her tongue, and its cloying artificial flavour is all he can taste.

She hooks one leg around his waist, trying to keep herself upright as he pushes her ever-backwards, hands holding onto the armrest for dear life.

“Turn around,” he says, and she peels herself away from him to oblige. Eleanor gasps as he knots his hand through her hair, pulling her head back so he can look her in the eye. “I want to take you, right here.” His voice has dropped several octaves, now little more than a rough growl. “I want to take you until you can barely stand up because you’re shaking.”

“Then,” she counters, ignoring his order to keep quiet, “what’s stopping you?”

His final thread of self-control breaks in two, and he slams into her from behind, not even bothering to try to line himself up. His hips snap against hers, and she cries out in a combination of pleasure-pain that soon turns to moans as he reaches to roll her sensitive clit between his thumb and forefinger. She arches her back, pressing back against him with every thrust.

Eleanor shudders as she comes around him, his teasing, and his ministrations making her fall apart. She doesn’t bother to suppress her moan; no one will hear her through the fortress’ thick stone walls. It almost pushes him over the edge, but he grits his teeth as her wet heat pulses around him, determined to draw this out for a moment, maybe two, longer.

He has no intention of letting her out of the room until the sun rises tomorrow morning, but he wants to savour every minute he has. The Wasteland is not a nice place, but it is, however infinitesimally, better when she is near.

Arthur loosens his grip on her hair, running his thumb over her cheek as she tries to catch her breath, stilling his pace long enough for her to come back to reality. Slowly though, he picks up his pace again until she climaxes for a second time, pushing him over the edge as he spills inside of her.

She almost melts into his arms when he lifts her up in his arms, setting her down on the sofa as he takes a seat next to her, her head resting against his chest.

And within half an hour, they’re back at it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Told you I'd get around to making art for this... eventually. I don't normally do cell-shading, but I didn't have forty hours to spare to do one of my normal portraits, sorry. ~~And I wasn't getting paid for that one either, lmao.~~ Also, her lipstick is the exact same colour as the Nuka-Cola Cherry label, and the sofa is only half a shade darker because uhhhh... Colour theory, I guess? I don't know. I've been doing art for about ten years and none of it makes sense to me anymore. If you're interested in more of my art, I have a blog over at artpixelyna.tumblr.com !
> 
> Anyhow! Next chapter: Eleanor tells the full story of what happened in the Institute, and plans are made.


	30. Chapter Thirty

The room is silent, save for the soft pitter-patter as Eleanor paces, the knuckle of her index finger pressed to her lips as she thinks. She does not wear her full uniform, her navy coat thrown over simple green jumpsuit, her hair tied back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She had managed to find a similar one in a larger size from the armoury for Arthur, insisting that he let the Minutemen wash his flight suit after wearing it for several days.

There’s a slight tremor to her hands, he notices, as she passes by him, the bags under her eyes darker than they usually are. She looks exhausted, but he’s not surprised. She was wont to drink herself into a stupor before passing out, but she’s now forced to lie awake at night, turning over the countless things she has to worry over.

Piper leans back in her chair, watching the General from beneath her burgundy cap. There’s a question on the inquisitive reporter’s lips, but she does not dare ask it, nor does anyone else. All of Eleanor’s trusted companions and advisors, save for MacCready, and her Miss-Nanny-turned-synth and Mr Handy, have congregated in the war room. Danse had shown up this morning with an exhausted look that told him Kells and the Proctors are hardly pleased by his extended leave of absence. Preston Garvey has removed his hat, and toys with the edge. The ghoul mayor of Goodneighbour mirrors him, but fiddles with a knife rather than his large, tricorn hat. Valentine pulls out a cigarette, but before he can remove it from his coat pocket, everyone shoots him a sharp, warning glare. They won’t make Eleanor’s decision to quit her vices any harder for her, even if half of them are yearning for a smoke, while the other half is craving a drink.

Her ragtag band of misfits is a lot more considerate than he’d have thought them to be.

“The Institute is planning an attack on Bunker Hill.” After sitting in silence for so long, Eleanor’s whispered words are almost as loud as a Deathclaw’s roar. She lets out a heavy sigh, bracing herself against the table, looking out at her allies gathered on the other side. Her gaze flits briefly to Arthur, and a smile appears on her lips just as soon as it disappears. “They’re gathering their forces, and are preparing to march. Several synths have escaped the Institute, and are now taking refuge there. They won’t stop until they get them back. Innocents will be caught in the crossfire—”

“Will all due respect, General,” Garvey says cautiously, setting his hat back atop his head, “I think we’d all like to know what happened to you in the Institute before we discuss other matters.”

Eleanor hides it well, but the agony in her emerald eyes is clear to anyone who knows to look for it. She closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath as she sinks into a chair, hands clasped on the table before her. She had told him what had happened, to a certain extent, but they had spoken little of the matter since she had returned.

His fault, Arthur thinks. He should’ve been more concerned about how she’s handling things.

“The Institute,” she says softly, “is run by a man named Father. He directs the entire operation. The original Gen 3 synths were created from his DNA, and he’s the one who’s been ordering kidnapping of civilians, and having them replaced by synths. When I… When I Relayed into the Institute, I first thought they hadn’t noticed me, but soon after, there was a voice. Father’s voice. He welcomed me, said he knew I was going to come. You should… You should see the place. It’s almost as large as Concord, from what I saw; an underground city made of plastic, and glass, and steel, and just as sterile as a clinic. The air itself smelled of disinfectant, and synths and humans resided there in equal numbers.

“I thought that the Institute might treat their creations as equals, but they treat them like slaves. I was led through a series of hallways, doors locking behind me, and through the windows I saw scientists treating synths of all generations as nothing more than free labour, threatening to ‘decommission’ them if they misbehaved. I continued on though, and there I found…” Eleanor hides her face in her hands, fighting back sobs. No one moves to comfort her. Sometimes, it’s kinder to let people cry. “I found Shaun.”

The pain in her words prevents anyone from seeing it as a victory.

“But,” Eleanor continues, “he didn’t recognise me. Why would he? He was ten, maybe eleven, and just kept crying out for Father. And then he walked in. Father. An aging, old man with a head full of grey hair. I thought to myself, ‘This can’t be the terrifying leader in charge of the Institute. He looks like if you breathed on him, he would die.’ Father just ignored me, turned to Shaun, an-and…  Shaun just dropped, doubling over. I didn’t even hear what Father said, but I knew then that I had seen those eyes before… Eyes that were more green than brown, like my father’s, like… Like Shaun’s.”

“Holy shit,” Piper breathes out, holding her hand over her mouth as the pieces fall into place. Eleanor words seem to have shocked everyone else into silence.

The Vault Dweller does not stop to acknowledge Piper. “Kellogg warned me that I had spent more time in the Vault than I had thought. I thought he meant that it had been ten years since he had taken Shaun. All the rumours I heard of Shaun depicted him as a young boy. But it had been sixty. For sixty years, my boy had been with the Institute, his DNA harvested to make Gen 3 synths, and now…. Now he’s in charge of the entire goddamn operation.”

Hancock’s the only one who knows about this other than Arthur, but the ghoul seems just as solemn as the rest of them. It’s different to hear it from her when she was high, and barely making any sense, than it is to hear it from her now, coherent, and…

And heartbroken.

“I didn’t want to accept it as true, but I knew it was.” Eleanor toys with her holotags, and he notices that her wedding bands are absent from the chain from which they usually hang. “My son is embodiment of the very thing we’re fighting against. He said I didn’t understand, he said that there was no hope for the people aboveground. ‘Mankind, redefined,’ he said, as though he’s any more human than fucking Gen 1’s. I looked into his eyes—into the eyes of my son—and I saw nothing but a monster who sees the truth as nothing but black and white. ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you time to decide with whom you’ll side.’

“I gave him a chance. I thought, perhaps, I didn’t understand after all. I went with a Courser to Libertalia, where an escaped synth had been relocated by the Railroad. His mind had been wiped, he’d been given a fresh new start, and he had become the leader of a raider gang. The Institute can deactivate a synth at any time with a recall code, turn them complacent, and after…” She swallows. “They take them to the Synth Retention Bureau in the Institute, where they decide if they’re going to scrap them for parts, ‘decommission’ them, or wipe them, and start again. They gave me his code, and told me to take him back alive. I thought it would be kinder to spare him, than to kill him, so I used the code, and…

“Have you ever looked into the eyes of a feral too injured to fight?” she asks in a whisper. “You can see their pain, the last shred of their humanity, but they’re nothing more than shells of their former selves. They’re trapped in their own body, screaming and crying from the other side of an impenetrable wall. It was like that. He just lost all life, and I was responsible for it. He was still alive, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything as we brought him back to the Institute. I found out later that they decided to test why he had gone rogue, and sided with raiders after the Railroad wiped him. I heard… I heard him begging for it to be over as they tortured him. I heard him crying. It would have been kinder to kill him.”

Piper looks like she’s going to be sick, as white as a sheet as she glances away from the General. “Wasn’t your fault, Blue. You didn’t know,” she says.

“It was my fault,” Eleanor says sharply. “I did it to him, and Father— _Shaun_ was proud of me for it. Welcomed me into the Institute. I knew I couldn’t stay with them. I didn’t care if he’s my son. He is nothing more to me than someone who shares my blood. I hated my parents for what they forced Nate to do, but I understand why they did what they did. We had a reputation to uphold, but Shaun? Shaun cannot consider any other truth than his own. He believes that what he is doing is right, and that all wastelanders deserve to die. I have to stop him. He’s my son. He’s my responsibility.

“So I bided my time. I gathered as much information as I could, transferring information over to my Pip-Boy. I found Madison Li,” Her gaze flits to both Danse and Arthur at that, “convinced her to leave the Institute to help the Brotherhood. She knew my plans, knew what I was doing, and she went to Shaun, and told him that he should trust me. And he did. Made some modifications to my Pip-Boy so I could come and go as I pleased, and said that in three weeks’ time, to meet a Courser outside of Bunker Hill to reclaim the runaway synths.

“I left as soon as I could, and the Relay dumped me outside of Vault 111. So I got drunk until I couldn’t see straight, buried Nate, and the rest was a shit show of jet, calmex, and a lot of crying.” She sniffs, hot, angry tears rolling down her face. “Is that enough, Preston? Or did you want to hear more?”

Garvey knows that she isn’t angry at him, raging instead at the situation in which she had found herself. He nods, countenance softening. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the only one,” she mumbles, wiping away her tears. “We have to protect Bunker Hill. The Institute doesn’t care who they kill, so long as they get their synths back. We can’t let that happen.”

“So we kill the Institute’s forces, protect the civilians, and kill the synths,” Danse says.

“The Commonwealth belongs to _all_ of us Danse,” Garvey says warningly. “Including peaceful synths.”

“He’s right.” Eleanor looks to Garvey, nodding. “Desdemona said I owed her a favour for decoding the Courser chip. Letting the synths go free might count as a favour.”

“I don’t like this idea,” Arthur says quietly. “The synths are still a threat. They’re loyal to the Railroad, even if they’re not with the Institute, and we don’t know if Desdemona will accept.”

“I have enough blood on my hands, Arthur. I’m not killing a few innocent synths, regardless of their loyalties. If she accepts, then there’s one thing less we have to worry about. I’d rather her call it in for this, than for something that could bring the Minutemen or the Brotherhood down. If she doesn’t, then we’re not losing anything. We might even be able to turn the synths to our side if we save them. They can have a place in the Minutemen. We’ve taken in ex-Railroad members before.”

“That’s a security risk, and one that I’m not willing to take. They’re a threat, and they should be eliminated.”

“Then it is a _damn_ good thing that you’re not the General of the Minutemen, isn’t it?” she snaps, eyes flashing. “I respect your orders. Now respect mine.”

It is easy to forget that she’s just as dangerous as she is. She’s not exactly charming, but she knows what people want to hear. Her strength doesn’t come from brute force, it comes from her resolve, and her determination. But he’s seen her fight, he has heard of the carnage she has left behind in her wake. She is the General for a reason, and it is because she has fought tooth, nail, and claw to protect the Minutemen. She had gunned down a Deathclaw in a suit of power armour that was falling apart at the seams. She had wiped out the mutants at Fort Strong without breaking a sweat. She had killed Kellogg, the nearly-invincible Institute mercenary, and had walked away without a single scratch. How many others are dead because of her? A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand?

Eleanor Ridley is a dangerous, dangerous woman, and she should not be underestimated.

Arthur clenches his jaw, irritated, but he concedes. He has forced her to follow his orders on multiple occasions. It is time he follows hers.

“So,” he says, “General, what are your orders?”

Her eyes are still bloodshot with tears, but he can see the fire burning behind her green eyes, as hot as the bombs that had destroyed her home. “Gather your men,” she says. “We’re going to war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next couple chapters are a bit plot heavy, I warn you, but even if Eleanor's said goodbye to Nate, she hasn't said goodbye to Shaun quite just yet. Anyhoo, next chapter: Desdemona pays a visit to the Castle, Eleanor worries Arthur, and things continue building up to Chapter 34. ~~(Which will conclude Act 2, yay! On to Blind Betrayal and The Nuclear Option after that!)~~


	31. Chapter Thirty One

Arthur’s shoulders sag as he crosses out today’s date in the calendar. It’s hard to believe that it’s the twentieth of October already. They have six days— _five, really, since the sun has started to set_ _as day turns to night_ —until the Institute makes their move on Bunker Hill. It would not be such a problem if they didn’t have to maintain a cover of secrecy, lest the Institute catch word of their plans, and change their own. For ten days, they have been slowly moving their forces ever-closer to Bunker Hill, preparing for the Institute’s assault on the settlement.

Brotherhood forces have been relocated to County Crossing under the guise of clearing out the nearby satellite array of mutants, accompanied by as many Minutemen Eleanor can spare. Her men are not soldiers, even if they’re not half bad at wielding a weapon, and so she orders them to take up residence in the settlements closer to Bunker Hill, fortifying each settlement until it provides as a blockade that surrounds the memorial site in a U formation. Arthur had not realised just how much of the Commonwealth the Minutemen occupy until Eleanor brings out a large map, every settlement marked off. He knows she’d said that they had nearly thirty settlements, but it’s different seeing it marked off. There are few places the Minutemen cannot protect, the expansive network having few holes that are mostly due to natural obstacles, such as the Glowing Sea.

Eleanor thumbs a small stone as she pours over the map, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m going to have to approach from Hangman’s Alley,” she says, placing the stone down on the map in order to mark the settlement. He notices that the tip of the stone has been painted blue. An orange-capped stone marks the airport. “The Courser should be meeting me by the southern entrance. I’ll try to distract as many Coursers as I can, leaving you to take the north.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Arthur murmurs, leaning over the map as he analyses their strategy. “You’ll be surrounded by the Institute’s most dangerous soldiers.”

“I’ll be careful,” she says. “And as long as they think I’m on their side, they won’t attack. X4-18 will not let me out of his sights, though, so when we set the synth free… You’ll need to get your men out of there.”

“And leave you behind with a Courser? Absolutely not.”

“That wasn’t a request, Arthur,” she says, and he’s surprised by just how much she sounds like him. “I’ve killed a Courser before. I can take him, and besides, he won’t see it coming, but I have to do this alone. If I go with anyone else, he’ll suspect that they’re working for you. He’ll be on alert. Thanks to Dr Li, Shaun trusts me, and by extension, so do all of the synths. They won’t harm me unless I hurt them. I’m more likely to get caught in the crossfires than I am to get hurt by them.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I, but it has to be me.”

He doesn’t want to admit that she’s right, so he settles instead for dropping the conversation. “Any plans for the synths, General?” he asks, his formality making her snort with amusement. “The ones with the Railroad?”

“Bunker Hill’s not far from Old North Church. I won’t ask your men to do it, so I will have the Minutemen escort the synths who wish to return to their headquarters. Those who wish to join the Minutemen will go to Goodneighbour until we decide which settlement to relocate them to. Anyone who wishes to go off on their own will do so, and neither the Brotherhood nor the Minutemen will be responsible for their wellbeing.” She pauses, raising a brow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“In another life,” he says, “you would be my best soldier. If you could follow orders.”

“Ah, but if I could follow orders, I wouldn’t be your best soldier, admit it,” she teases.

“You do _not_ need any further condoning to be insubordinate.”

“Perhaps, but in all fairness, you do ‘punish’ me oh-so-delightfully afterwa—Preston! Hi!” Eleanor immediately changes the topic as her second-in-command steps into the war room, her cheeks flushed.

Garvey looks just as uncomfortable as she does, adjusting his grip on his laser musket. “Am I interrupting, General?”

“No!” Eleanor says, too rushed to sound believable. “No, not at all. What is it?”

His pleasant, if not slightly embarrassed, expression sours. “She’s here,” is all he says, but there’s only one guest they’ve been expecting, and there’s no need to ask him to elaborate. Garvey still holds his musket as he steps aside, visibly tense as two sets of heels click down the hall. Two?

The noxious scent of tobacco fills the room as Desdemona strides into the room, a lit cigarette pinched between gloved fingers. Eleanor twitches at the smell, no doubt fighting her own cravings. The leader of the Railroad brown eyes are as cold as steel, and still hold that self-righteousness Eleanor despises so greatly. She seems older, somehow, as though she’s aged a decade in the two months since they last saw her. Close behind, is Ashley, her face covered in ash and dirt. She stiffens as her gaze falls upon Arthur, eyes narrowing.

“Maxson,” she says tightly.

Desdemona smiles, and it’s anything but friendly. “I see you know Charmer,” she says.

“Charmer?”

Her smile only grows as she looks to Eleanor. “Well, you see, Wanderer was already taken.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, Eleanor’s hands curling into fists by her side. “Lovely place you’ve got here, General.”

“Sure beats a dingy old crypt, don’t it?” she snaps back at her. “But I didn’t invite you here to give you a tour of my Castle. Don’t want you learning our secrets, now do we?” Eleanor lets out a breath, slowly, as though she relishes being in control. For once, she’s the one in power here, not Desdemona. Eleanor’s territory, Eleanor’s rules. Even he’s subject to her authority here, and there’s no chance she’d give something to Desdemona that she won’t give to him. “I believe,” she says after a moment’s pause, “that I owe you a favour, so let’s talk business.”

Desdemona opens her mouth to speak, but before she can get a word out, Eleanor continues on. She knows that she’s in control, and she has no intention of letting Desdemona take that away from her. Her cool, calculated attitude is almost frightening.

“Four weeks ago, I got into the Institute,” she says. “Three weeks ago, I pretended to be on their side, and broke into their systems. Two weeks ago, I found that the Institute had discovered that you’ve been harbouring synths in Bunker Hill. And five days from now, the Institute is planning to launch a full-on assault on Bunker Hill to get them back. The Minutemen, and by extension, the Brotherhood, cannot allow them to raze an entire town to the ground, just to retrieve a couple synths, and I will not help the Institute reclaim them either. But we have a problem. By working with the Brotherhood, I cannot justify letting the synths go free.” That’s a lie, Eleanor’s already made up her mind about letting them go, but they don’t need to know that. “Call in your favour, and I might just see it in my heart to set them free.”

“And here I thought you were calling just because you missed me.”

“Do not mistake my decision to ignore the Railroad’s existence for condoning what you are doing to synths. You cannot save someone by turning them into something else. If you want to save a synth, then you save them for who, and what they are, not by making them into a stranger.”

Eleanor can barely keep the anger out of her voice, but it comes off as venomous rather than vengeful. Desdemona is not a woman who scares easily, but she cannot hide her grimace. Even Ashley looks down to the ground, unable to meet Eleanor’s wrath-filled gaze. Garvey is the only one who appears unfazed, but he has served alongside Eleanor for a year, and knows what to expect.

The General taps her fingers on the surface of the war table. She is a woman who has lost too much to care about people who stand in her way. And she especially does not care about people who have tried to stop her time, and time again. He is suddenly thankful that he had accepted her alliance. God knows what she would do to the Brotherhood if he hadn’t. Would she tear them apart, piece by piece, as she’s doing with the Institute?

“You’re a security threat, Desdemona. I shouldn’t even grant you the favour that you are owed, but I like to think that I’m somewhat honourable,” says Eleanor. “You did me a favour by decoding the chip, and now I intend to return it.”

Desdemona almost looks sick; the ever-composed fearless leader of the Railroad, frightened half to death by a woman twenty years her junior. But if he were in her shoes, he would be frightened too. “What do you want, Ridley?”

“You’re a security threat, Desdemona. Four lives are at risk here. Call your favour in, and I’ll save them. If you don’t, they die, and I won’t give you another chance to get a favour out of me. Things are a tipping point. I won’t let you interfere with my plans by appealing to my sense of honour.”

“So what’s your little boy-toy doing here?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your fucking business.”

Desdemona laughs. “Sore spot, was that?”

Arthur pushes his shoulders back, holding Desdemona’s gaze. “I’m here to ensure you don’t mess this up for all of us. Eleanor’s right. Things are at a tipping point. You can interfere when we give you permission to interfere, but if you step one _foot_ out of line, I’ll place a bullet between your eyes. I don’t care who you’ve chosen to work with. And really, Ashley? You say that Sarah would be disappointed in me, but when was the last time you took a look at what you’re doing? When was the last time you looked in the mirror?”

The Lone Wanderer swallows with shame. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

Desdemona holds up a hand to silence her before Ashley can respond. “Four synths?” she repeats, Eleanor nodding in confirmation. “When I first accepted you into my ranks, Eleanor, I underestimated you. I thought, ‘Here comes some naïve little pre-War Vault Dweller that I could make use of.’ I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect… You. You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Actually,” Ashley says quietly, eyes on Arthur, “she’s starting to sound like him. You know what, Dez, I’m out. I don’t want anything to do with this anymore. You’re right, Maxson. Sarah would be disappointed in me. I’ll be at the airport if anyone needs me. I need to have a talk with Ingram.” She turns on her heel, shoving a walkie-talkie into Desdemona’s hands as she exits the war room.

Eleanor watches her leave in silence before looking back to Desdemona. “You’re running out of time. My patience is wearing thin. Shall I give you some sort of arbitrary time limit? Would that help motivate you?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Desdemona spits through gritted teeth. “I’m calling in my favour. Save them. But know when you march on Bunker Hill, the Railroad will be there too.”

She smiles, and it’s all teeth, and nothing human. “I was counting on it. I’ll see you in five days, Desdemona, but if you stand in our way…” She laughs under her breath. “Nine months ago, I held a gun to your head, and threatened to kill you. This time, it isn’t a threat. It’s a promise. Watch your back, Desdemona. Even your own men are turning on you. Preston, see her out of the Castle, and ensure that she makes it back to the Church.”

She waves her off, dismissing her. The leader of the Railroad shoots one last look at the Elder and the General before walking out with her head held high to disguise her shame. The room falls back into silence, and Eleanor immediately returns back to planning their attack. She talks for several minutes, her words falling on deaf ears, and he doesn’t realise that he had asked her a question until she falls silent, awaiting an answer.

“Arthur,” she says slowly, “are you listening to me?”

He blinks, snapping out of his reverie. “She’s right, you know,” he murmurs. “Ashley.”

“What about?”

He runs his hand over his face, calloused fingertips tracing his jagged scars. He’s a warrior through and through. She’s supposed to be the human one, the one who cares more about doing what’s right than doing what needs to be done. He’s supposed to be logical, and calculating, and the perfect Elder. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to see the kind of person he’s become. All he has to do is look at her.

“You’ve become me,” he says quietly, pushing himself out of his seat, and quietly stepping out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the last we'll see of Ashley, but we can't have a Railroad agent in the inner circle, now can we? ~~*cough cough* tactical thinking *cough cough*~~ Preview of art for a later chapter, because I was messing around with colour grading, and creating a monochrome, coloured sketch while trying to plan out a proper piece of Eleanor for the future: 


	32. Chapter Thirty Two

****

The Castle is bustling with activity as they prepare for the battle tomorrow; Minutemen and Brotherhood soldiers alike check their weapons, and ammo, and armour. They run through drills like their lives depend on it, and perhaps their lives do. Tomorrow will not be a day without casualties. People will die, but there’s no way of telling who.

Arthur stands on the edge of the ramparts, staring out over the bay. The Prydwen hangs like a shadow against the dusty pink sky, visible just out of the corner of his eye. By noon tomorrow, the ground will be stained with blood. By sundown tomorrow, he will once again be writing letters of condolences.

Sarah’s knife is heavy in his hands, as though it is made of lead, not steel. He runs his thumb over her name carved into the wooden handle, feeling every indent, and every small mistake where the letters are uneven.

And he does not miss her.

It’s strange, to not mourn her death. He has lived with his grief for so long that its absence almost leaves him feeling empty.

“Cap for your thoughts?” Eleanor inquires in a soft voice as she steps up behind him. He turns to look at her, surprised by just how dishevelled she looks. For the past two weeks, she has dressed herself up in order to look every part the General of the Minutemen, save for their rare moments of solitude. Her hair is loose, brushed back over her shoulders to show her tired visage. She wears a bomber jacket to keep out the biting autumnal cold. Her white shirt is threadbare, and her black jeans are faded—she looks like a civilian. Not the General.

“You were gone all of today,” Eleanor says when he doesn’t respond, trying to prompt him into speaking. “Came back late last night, too.”

“Did I wake you?”

She blinks at his question, but seems content enough with his reply. At least she had managed to pry something out of him. “No,” she says. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted a smoke, but…” She exhales, looking out at the bay. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Looks just like it did pre-War.”

He keeps his eyes on the horizon where the sapphire sea glitters like a diamond. “You don’t talk about your life before the Vault much.” He isn’t quite certain if his words are a question or an observation.

“It’s hard to stay focused on ‘what is’ when I think of ‘what was,’” she says in a voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes, I visit some place I used to know, and it’s difficult to focus on anything else. I try to avoid visiting Sanctuary because of that.”

“I get what you mean. After Sarah died, they offered me her quarters. They always belonged to the Elder, after all, but I couldn’t step foot in there without a part of me hoping that she would be there. Like she had gone off on some secretive mission, and had only just returned. I had them get rid of her furniture, and put new things in. It helped, but it took years before I still didn’t hope that she’d be there.”

“Nate used to say that you can see ghosts in familiar places. He said that he saw his friends from the National Guard in the bars they used to visit, that he saw them in the crowd whenever he made a speech. I didn’t understand then. I had never lost people I cared about. But everywhere I go, I see him. There were some mutants holed up in Fraternal Post 115. Piper and I cleared them out easy enough, and we glanced at the terminals to see if there was anything interesting… They mentioned him. By name. He had just given a speech in Concord, and they said that they wanted to bring him down to speak there. I had almost forgotten about that day in Concord. It was the first time he presented me as his wife to his commanding officers.” She sighs. “He was a good man. You would have liked him.”

“You would have liked Sarah,” he says, making her laugh. “She was stubborn as hell, though. Could have convinced mountains to move.”

“She sounds like you.”

“I think she rubbed off on me,” he says, glancing down at Sarah’s knife in his hands. “She taught me everything I know.”

“I don’t know if she would be proud of you,” Eleanor says, looking to him, “but from what I’ve heard about her, she’d be proud that you did your best. Even when your best isn’t enough, there isn’t anything else you can do. And she’d have admired you for it. It isn’t easy. Any of this. _All_ of this. Learned that the hard way.”

Somehow, he thinks, her words are more comforting than they would’ve been if she had said what he wants to hear. “Before I was even born, it was known that I would eventually lead the Brotherhood. They wrote prophecies about me, predicted the kind of man that I would become. There was never any other job for me, besides this. Some called it destiny.” He doesn’t know if it actually is destiny. It might be. He has survived things that should have killed him, and his path has led him here. Has led him to Eleanor. They can save the Commonwealth, perhaps even the entire wasteland. “I never had a choice,” he continues. “You did. You chose to sacrifice everything to protect innocents.”

“Is this your way of asking why I became the General?” she asks though she already knows the answer. “I couldn’t just sit by, and watch the Commonwealth’s last hope disappear. The Brotherhood wasn’t in the picture yet, and I hadn’t met the Railroad yet. If you weren’t the last Maxson, and there was no other heir apparent, would you have done all you could to become an elder?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Humour me,” she says.

He knows the answer, but he considers the question regardless. He’s always been ambitious, but is that just a by-product of his upbringing? No, he decides. His morals are what guide him, and they are his own. “Yes,” he says finally. “I would have.”

“Then is it so hard to believe that I wanted to do the same?”

“Yes,” he says, a little more forcefully this time. “I agree that the Institute is wrong for not seeing any good in the Commonwealth, but it’s not hard to see why they think that. The end of the world makes good men into bad ones. When there’s nothing left of society but ruins, there’s little people won’t do to get their hands on what’s left. Most people don’t want to do the right thing.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I do?”

“You mistake me.” Arthur slowly reaches for her hand, and takes it his own. He’s reminded for their first meeting, when she had reached for him on the Prydwen’s command deck, the windows illuminated by the light of the setting sun.

_“I care about them, you know. The people of the Commonwealth.”_

_For a woman so powerful, her smile was soft, almost kind. “I know.”_

“I don’t mean to say that you don’t want to do the right thing,” he says, her eyes dropping to the ground beneath her shuffling feet. “I know you. You want justice more than you want anything else. What I mean is that you break all expectations. You don’t follow the rules. Any other woman would have given up months ago. No one would have blamed you for doing the same. But you didn’t. You got angrier, stronger, more determined. Even now, even after Shaun, you still keep fighting. Multiple people have told me that I don’t deserve you. I’m starting to think that they’re right.”

“Half of that isn’t true.” She’s been nothing but the General for days now, and this is the first time she has sounded human since she had been reduced to tears in front of her friends. Eleanor meets his gaze. “I don’t want justice more than anything else. I can think of at least one thing I want more than I want justice, and you don’t get to say what you deserve. You pity yourself, and you shouldn’t. One of the reasons I can keep fighting, why I keep living, why I keep doing what I do is because I see people like you. I see you stand in the face of it all. I see you weather the storm, and I ask myself, how can I do anything less? But how can I compare myself to a king when I wear no crown?”

“Why wear a crown when you have a castle? If you wanted a crown… I hear your man, Sturges, is quite good with his hands.”

Eleanor laughs, but the sound is bitter, and pained. “And I’m certain I could drag a chair out of storage, and call it a throne, couldn’t I?”

He takes a good long look at her for the first time in days. She’s lost weight, and not in a healthy way, her cheeks almost gaunt from lack of both food and water. She’s been living off of Nuka-Cola, and not much else. “Ellie—” he starts.

“The other day,” she says, cutting him off. “You said I had become you.”

Arthur purses his lips, nodding once.

“What did you mean by that?” she asks.

He lets out a breath between clenched teeth. “Like a leader. Someone your men respect. But you also were…”

“Cruel? Unkind?” she suggests. “I scared myself, you know. When I was talking to Desdemona.”

 _You scared me too,_ he thinks, but does not say it out loud.

Eleanor grimaces, not noticing his silence. “I sounded like my mother. She was a lawyer too, you know. That sort of cruel heartlessness? The disregard for an innocent’s life? The manipulation? It was why I hated her, and I hated my father for letting her get away with it. I learned early on that just because a person does a good thing, it does not make them a good person. On the other hand, just because a person does a bad thing, it doesn’t mean that they’re a bad person either. I try to be a good person, you know. It doesn’t always work.”

“You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“So are you, yet I’ve seen you hate yourself for making them.”

He laughs under his breath. “I find that I do that a lot.”

“You do,” she agrees, “and you shouldn’t. You don’t deserve that. You… mean a lot to me, Arthur.”

“As do you,” he says, bringing her hand up to his lips. The soft kiss to her knuckles makes her blush as though they haven’t done much worse. “You’re not your mother, Eleanor.”

“And you’re not just a Maxson,” she returns, swallowing a sob. “But we both have to do what we have to do. We don’t get to be choosy. We have to do what needs to be done, even if it’s not good, or right. But this? This war? The Minutemen? I _want_ to do this.”

Arthur let out a heavy sigh, his stomach twisting as he drops her hand. “There’s no going back from this. If you betray the Institute, you’ll never see your son again.”

“He’s not my son,” she says, a little too sharp to sound believable. She pulls her jacket tighter around her frame. “He’s no more my son than I think of my parents as my parents. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I can’t see any other way this is going to end. I think some part of me knew that when I met Kellogg, and put a bullet between his eyes. I knew I wasn’t going to walk away without blood on my hands.” She pulls at a cut in her lower lip with her teeth, reopening the wound. “We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent,” she recited.

“I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the _Bhagavad Gita_ ,” Arthur continues the line solemnly. The iconic quote had been recorded time and time again by scribes across the Wasteland. “Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty, and to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form, and says—”

“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” Eleanor closes her eyes. “They said that when they first made the atom bomb. I remember the broadcast. I thought, how could you think such a thing and not realise that you had made a mistake? I know now that sometimes mistakes are the only option, even if they’re terrible. But there is a difference, I think, between what the bombs did, and what I’m doing. I’m trying to save them, Arthur.”

“I know,” he says. “Just… Just be careful.”

“Of?” she asks, opening her eyes to look at him. Peridot irises almost glow gold in the light of the setting sun.

“Of not becoming the very thing you’re fighting against,” he says, pulling her into an embrace, his chin resting on the top of her head. “And tomorrow, come back safe. I don’t know what I would do if you didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a random comic panel sketch that was going to be part of a larger thing that I gave up on:  
>   
> Next chapter: part one of the two parter that is The Battle of Bunker Hill.  
> Also, Eleanor is totally afraid of the bugs in the Commonwealth. Ghouls? Sure. Mirelurks? Why not. Deathclaws? Sounds like a fun rainy day activity. Giant irradiated cockroaches? _Absolutely not._ ~~There's only so much bullshit a pre-War Vault Dweller is willing to put up with before they draw the line, and radroaches are where its at.~~


	33. Chapter Thirty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to come out yesterday, but I started playing Destiny 2, and uhhhh got kind of distracted. Whoops?  
> In which: Bunker Hill is fought for, Arthur remembers just how hard it is to run with a Gatling gun, and synths are saved.

Arthur’s Gatling laser, _Final Judgement_ as he had named it, is heavy in his grip; the heavy weapon is constructed of the finest materials— _“Only the best for an elder with Maxson blood,” the Council said, handing the boy the gun_ —but it weighs almost as much as a piece of power armour. The fighting hasn’t started yet, and, in theory, he could rest it on the ground, but he doubts that the peace will last for long. This is nothing more than the quiet before the storm, and he’s counting down the seconds until—

The first shot cuts through the air, the sound coming from less than a block away.

“Keep as many synths away from the General as you can,” he orders, turning to his team consisting of several knights, and Paladin Danse. “They’ll turn on her the instant she takes out the Courser, so the less resistance she faces on the way out, the better. Keep an eye out for Railroad and Minutemen soldiers. If any of them die, the General will punish you herself. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” comes in a chorus from his men, each of them trying to disguise their own nervousness.

“Now, _move!_ ” Arthur takes point, his Gatling laser held tight in his hands. They burst forth from the alleyway, taking several synths by surprise. They take care of them quickly, but more of the skeletal Gen 1 and 2’s appear out of nowhere in flashes of blue light as the entirety of the Brotherhood’s forces begin to converge on Bunker Hill. Vertbirds whir overhead, their spinning blades announcing their presence mere moments before they start firing upon the seemingly endless waves of Institute creations below.

He had known that the Institute possesses an overwhelmingly large number of synths, but it had been difficult to visualise it until he had been forced to face it. How are they ever going to win this war? Synths outnumber his men four to one, and their allies are nowhere to be seen. He can’t even see Eleanor through the chaos, but…

He catches a glimpse of golden hair, and a swath of navy fabric. Eleanor meets his gaze from across the battlefield, glancing down at the ground before back up at him to reaffirm him that he’s okay. She follows a man with a buzz cut in a black leather coat, his gait too stiff to be natural—too stiff to be human.

The Courser.

It analyses the battlefield with an inhuman perceptiveness, calculating each shot with precision. No sooner than a Minuteman, or an Agent, or a knight has set their gaze upon it, they are already dead. The only sign that it had even fired is the steaming barrel of its laser rifle as it releases excess radiation. Valentine is more human than he is machine, but this synth? It is nothing more than a weapon.

“Danse.” Arthur turns to the Paladin, and he doesn’t even need to order him out loud, the Paladin already knowing his plan.

“I’ll take over,” he says, eyes following Eleanor as she and the Courser head towards the obelisk in the centre of Bunker Hill. “Protect her.”

 “Of course,” Arthur says. It’s difficult to run with the _Final Judgement_ , but he hardly needs to. The laser shots tear through the synths that stand between him and the General, and he ensures that he keeps far back enough that the Courser doesn’t notice him, even if Eleanor does.

He knows she can handle herself, knows that one lone Courser is nothing compared to what she has already faced, but there will be enough bodies on the funeral pyre tonight, and he will not let hers join them.

Arthur releases a spray of bullets onto a synth strider who had come a little too close, just in time to overhear her snap at the Courser. “I have legs,” she bites as it tries to hurry her down a hatch in the floor. “Shaun put me in charge of this mission, not you.”

“So you do, ma’am,” it replies, cordial, but its tone is still biting, its politeness fake. “I will respect Father’s questionable judgement from now on. I apologise.”

Its words are anything but an apology, and Eleanor notices, her eyes flashing with irritation, but she dismisses its transgressions for the sake of appearances, and heads further down into the basement of the store. Arthur follows a moment later, hitting a final synth in the head with his elbow. The force decapitates the robot, and it falls to the ground, twitching.

They hadn’t given the Railroad enough time to fully assemble their forces, but the secretive organisation has almost created a small blockade of agents and turrets in an attempt to protect their synths. Relentless waves of synths attack, spent fusion cells dropping around their metal feet. For every one synth that falls, the Railroad loses two.

Eleanor almost has to drag the Courser away from the fight, arguing furiously with the synth. He knows her well enough to know that she’s telling it that they should get in and out as soon as possible, but he also knows the truth. She won’t fire upon her allies, even if they’re with the Railroad, which would only out her as having orchestrated the entire thing. Reluctantly, the Courser submits to her wishes, and hurries on deeper into the underground tunnels, Arthur not far behind. Eleanor and the Courser round a corner, disappearing from view.

“Well?” he hears the Courser demand. “Father gave you the recall codes. Use them.”

“He never gave me the recall codes,” Eleanor insists, the slight waver in her voice giving away her lie. “I thought you had them.”

“You’re _lying_ ,” the Courser growls, and he hears a cry as someone, presumably Eleanor is slammed against the wall. Arthur rushes into the room, _Final Judgement_ weighing nothing in his panic, but it’s too late. Four civilians, the synths he presumes, cower in the corner, whimpering as the Courser holds its rifle to Eleanor’s temple. She doesn’t seem afraid, jaw clenched in determination, and her eyes are alight with anger. She clutches her pistol in her right hand, though its barrel is aimed at the ceiling. The Courser tilts its head as he steps into the room, as though the machine is capable of curiosity. “Arthur Maxson,” it says after a pause. “Elder of the Brotherhood.”

He meets its cold, lifeless gaze, gripping his Gatling laser. “Let her go, synth.”

“No,” it says simply. “Drop your weapon, and I will not kill her. Our records indicate that she means a lot to you. If you take a step towards her, I will shoot her, and then you.” Tentatively, Arthur glances to Eleanor. She nods once. He lets go of the gun finger by finger, placing it down on the ground. He kicks it several feet away for good measure. “I hypothesised that she had told you of the Institute’s plans when I discovered that the Brotherhood was waiting for us. Even more so when she stopped frequently to look back over her shoulder. I had hoped to have been wrong. Father will be disappointed.”

“Let her go,” repeats Arthur, taking great care to not alert the synth as he removes Sarah’s knife from a hidden sheath in his sleeve.

“I’m afraid she will be returning with me to the Institute,” it says. “She, along with the Institute’s property.”

“Like hell I will,” Eleanor snarls, slamming her elbow into the synth’s nose, allowing Arthur to dive towards it, plunging Sarah’s knife into its neck.

It doesn’t stop it, only serving to anger it further as it removes it, throwing it across the room. The Courser lunges back at Arthur, hands wrapped around the Elder’s throat. He struggles to push him off, but they’re wrestling on the ground for control now. The Courser, despite being half is size, had been genetically bred for this. Just when spots begin to dance across his vision, a staccato of shots ring in the room, gunfire illuminating the space for the briefest of seconds.

The synth goes lifeless a moment later, collapsing atop him. Arthur can taste blood. He hadn’t noticed, but during the short fight, the synth had busted his lip open. Vainly, he wonders if it will scar. He groans as he pushes himself out from beneath the corpse, noting the perfectly clean bullet hole at the nape of its check, Courser chip visible through the blood.

Slowly, Eleanor lowers her pistol. “I admit,” she says weakly, “for a second there, I thought I might have missed.” He can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, making her break out into a smile as she turns to the synths hiding in the corner. “It’s alright,” she says quietly, like a mother speaking to a frightened child. “I’m not here to hurt you, and the Courser won’t be taking you back to the Institute. I promise.”

“He’s with the Brotherhood,” a particularly confident synth mumbles, his brown eyes wide.

“And he’s with me,” she assures. “You’re free to go. There are Railroad agents outside. They’ll protect you.”

His gaze softens as he rubs the back of a sobbing woman. “Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to be so kind.”

She doesn’t smile, nodding instead as she runs her hands over Arthur’s features. “Are you hurt?” she asks. Briefly, she glances down at a flashing light on her Pip-Boy before looking back to her lover.

“Not terribly,” he grunts, rubbing his sore jaw. “Are you?”

“Don’t even think I have a bruise,” she murmurs, grimacing as the light continues flashing. “Will you accompany me, somewhere?”

“Where?”

It has been over a full year since Eleanor had first awoke in the Commonwealth; a full year since she had lost everything. He wonders if it’s hard for her. She might have said goodbye to Nate, but he knows that she will forever long for her old life, even if she has found comfort in this new one.

And she still cannot say her son’s name without her voice cracking. “Shaun… He… He wants to talk.”

Brotherhood soldiers and Minutemen are putting holes in the last of the synths as they emerge from the tunnel system, looting what they can from their bodies. They hardly notice their leaders scurrying away from the battlefield. Tonight, they will burn the bodies of the dead, but right now? Right now, there are more important things to do.


	34. Chapter Thirty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Lady_Trevelyan84 for her support on this disaster that was supposed to be a one shot <3  
> In which: Eleanor has already said goodbye to Nate, but she has yet to say goodbye to the man who used to be her son.

In absolute silence, Eleanor leads him away from Bunker Hill. She keeps her gaze aimed directly in front of her at all times, never straying once. She guides him through the streets, having long since memorised the path to… wherever it is they are headed. For almost an hour, they walk, taking care to avoid mutant lairs, and raider hideouts.

The ruins of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology is little more than several piles of rubble, and a handful of crumbling buildings. They cut through one of the buildings, and Eleanor climbs the flight of stairs two steps at a time, hardly waiting for him to keep up. Is she desperate to see Shaun, or just desperate to get this confrontation over with? By now, the Institute’s director will no doubt have heard of their failure at Bunker Hill. She could have lied to him, Arthur realises. She could have said that she’d had no part in the Minutemen’s involvement—that Garvey or someone else had tipped off the Railroad and the Brotherhood.

But to do so, she would have had to leave Arthur behind at the monument.

She may be Shaun’s mother, but he isn’t a child. Not anymore. He would not believe her if she said that she’d had nothing to do with it while standing next to the leader of the Institute’s sworn enemy.

The Commonwealth is silent from up atop the roof of the CIT building, almost peaceful. A radstorm glows on the horizon, bright green against the grey twilight sky. Even from this distance, he can see lightning arc through the air.

A man in a stark white lab coat stands by the edge of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. His hair is almost as grey as the dark clouds above, and as he turns on his heels to face him, Arthur sees that his eyes are not quite brown, not quite green, but despite their colour, he would recognise that piercing stare anywhere. He has seen that same heartbroken look on Eleanor one too many times.

“Mother,” he says tightly, unclasping his hands only so they can clench into fists by his side. “So I see this is my father’s replacement.”

Eleanor recoils, her visage contorting with pain. “Don’t say that,” she says quietly.

“Why not? He sounds like a child, but he is older than the two of them combined. “It is true, is it not?” He doesn’t get an answer out of her, and his gaze settles upon Arthur. Hatred flashes behind his hazel eyes. “Forgive me, Elder Maxson,” he says. “This is… an ongoing argument. I confess, I was wondering when we would meet. I had hardly expected it to be under these, ah, _unfortunate_ circumstances. My name is—”

“I know who you are.” Perhaps it is Shaun’s age, but he looks more like Eleanor’s descriptions of Nate than he looks like his mother. Still, they share many similarities in their behaviour, even if she had not raised him. That twitch of the muscle in his jaw has become familiar, Eleanor grinding her teeth until they’re practically smooth when she’s frustrated. And that grief… “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“From your mother, or from your men?” asks Shaun, though Arthur knows he doesn’t expect an answer. “Both, I imagine.” He sighs, shoving fisted hands into the pockets of his bleached coat. “I had meant to ask you several questions, Mother, but I think I know the answer to them.”

Eleanor can hardly bring herself to look him in the eyes. “I did what I had to, Shaun.”

“Perhaps,” is all he says, turning his gaze onto the Commonwealth below. “You know, in all my years, I’ve never set foot outside the Institute. Not once, since the day they brought me here. I’ve never had a reason.”

“Until now,” Arthur adds on, bitter.

“Until now,” Shaun repeats in way of confirmation. “I see that I have not… missed out on anything, for turn of phrase. This—” He gestures down at the city, “—just confirms the truth I’ve always known. The Commonwealth is… dead. There’s no future here. The only hope for humanity lies below, but I… needed, wanted perhaps, to put things into perspective. I am reminded of how fortunate I am that I was spared a life in this wasteland. I am almost grateful.”

He understands now what Eleanor had meant when she had called her son a monster. He is just as machine as his creations, perhaps even more so. The Commonwealth needs guidance, needs to be led back into the light, but there is still hope yet for the people here. For all wastelanders.

 “Grateful?” he snarls, infuriated by this man who dares to share Eleanor’s blood but none of her integrity, none of her honour, her beliefs, her values— _her humanity_. Eleanor just looks tired, her knuckles pressed to her lips as they always are, and standing on the very edge of the roof. One gentle gust of wind would send her tumbling three stories down to the ground. “You’re _grateful_?”

“It is a common misconception that I was kidnapped from Vault 111.” Shaun doesn’t even bother to look at him. “In truth, I was rescued. Both of us, really. My mother would not be standing here today if not for the Institute’s interference. She was a backup, I admit, but a contingency plan was prudent _._ Another source of pre-War DNA, preferably related to the primary subject. It only made sense that my parents should fill that role.” He laughs under his breath, the sound bitter and angry. “You are lucky, Elder. If not for the Institute’s plans, you never would have met my mother. _I_ let her out.”

He almost wants to throw the man off the roof. He wants to see what he would look like, broken and bleeding on the pavement, but it wouldn’t be enough. A quick death would be a mercy compared to the suffering he has inflicted upon his mother. “You could have let her out _years_ ago!”

“Until I became director, I had no idea she was there,” he snarls. “And after, there was initially no… logical reason to do so. She and I were strangers.”

Arthur regrets not having a closer relationship with his mother before she had died. He can hardly even remember her anymore, and when he does, the memory comes in flashes, fragments that he soon forgets again. All he has is her name, and the assurances of her former friends that she had been a formidable woman. “She’s your _mother_ , and she’s nothing more to you than just another experiment.”

“And was it worth it to you, Shaun?” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, and she is on the verge of tears, but no amount of tears can hide the venom in her voice. She had centuries stolen from her by Vault-Tec, and her own son had stolen sixty more from her. She toys with the modified barrel of her gun. “Was this worth it? Is this what you wanted?”

“I don’t know.” He can’t tell if Shaun is mournful, or just drained. “I had questions. I needed you to answer them. Would the Commonwealth corrupt you, as it has everything else? Would you even survive?” Then, quieter: “Would you even look for the son you had lost?”

She looks over her shoulder at him, her eyes wet with tears. “I would have gone to the ends of the Earth to find you,” she says. “I’d have given my life just to save yours. You never gave me the chance. Is it truly so hard to see the good here? One does not look at the dirt, and mourn for flowers in winter. Not when spring is right around the corner.”

“This isn’t as simple as the seasons.”

“No, you’re right,” she says. “It’s simpler. There are all sorts of variables when it comes to seasons, when it comes to the weather. How hard is it for any sane person to understand that it is not _right_ to kill someone? That lives are sacred, and we should protect them with everything we fucking have, because once they’re gone we can’t get them back? Watch someone you love die, Shaun, and then tell me whether or not senseless slaughter should be treated as a solution to a problem that doesn’t exist. I dreamt of you as an adult since I first learned I was pregnant with you. And here you are, and I am so… _disappointed_. Your father would have thought the same.”

“You do not get to use my father against me when you stand here next to a man you senselessly abandoned your husband for.”

“Nate’s dead, Shaun!” After whispering for so long, Eleanor’s shouts make him wince. “Nate’s dead, because your precious little Institute killed him. They created a monster out of an ordinary man, and that man placed a bullet between his eyes, and stole you from his arms. Tell me, what was I supposed to do? Was I meant to mourn him forever? Was I meant to fall in love with him after his death despite having not loved him as a husband while he was alive? Was I meant to look back on the past for the rest of my life, dreaming of white picket fences? This world doesn’t allow for such luxuries, and I’ve found one good thing that helps me get through it all, and you _dare_ to insult him?”

“Eleanor—” starts Arthur.

“No!” she yells, cutting him off before he can truly start. “Is that what you wanted from me, Shaun? Because I tried that. I was drunk from dawn until dusk, and spent my whole day _hating_ myself for not dying in his stead.”

“What I _wanted_ ,” snarls the Institute’s director, “was to be something like a family again. I hoped you shared our vision for the future!”

“I have seen your vision for the future, and there is nothing in it besides death, and destruction, and disorder. Everything you see wrong in the Commonwealth? It’s inside you too. You should have the sense to recognise that. They do not. I have my flaws, and so does Arthur, but at least we’re willing to admit to them! You’re sixty, and you can’t even admit to being a goddamn pessimist. I shouldn’t have expected you to admit that you’re wrong.”

Arthur swallows as she chokes on a sob, wiping away her tears on the back of her hand.

Shaun cannot look his mother in the eyes, cowering before her wrathful grief. “Bunker Hill,” he says quietly, “was to cement your place as a valuable asset to the Institute, you know. You were meant to show that you could represent the Institute without ruining everything we’ve worked so hard to attain.”

“I don’t want to ‘represent the Institute.’ Have you thought about that?”

“To be quite honest: _no_ , I hadn’t considered that. It would be such a poor decision on your part, I hadn’t given it much thought. You would ally yourselves with these radical killers but not your own son?”

“You,” she snarls, “are _not_ my son.”

“You gave her orders.” This is a dispute between mother and son, and he cannot help but feel like he’s intruding on their privacy by interjecting, but he cannot stand idly by. If he cannot make Shaun suffer as Eleanor has suffered, then he will at least force him to face the destruction he has caused. “She didn’t want to follow them. You hoped to cage a storm, and you couldn’t. That is your fault.”

“Was it, Elder Maxson?” Shaun asks. “Was it my fault that my mother failed to do a job that should have been, by all means, impossible to fail?”

“I made a choice, Shaun.” Eleanor’s voice had dropped back down to a whisper. “I _let_ the synths go free.”

“Why? Why would you do something so… so… _stupid_?”

“It was the right thing to do! I’ve seen what you do to your ‘reclaimed’ synths. I’d rather have killed them than let you take them. Why am I even bothering? I don’t have to explain myself to you. I can’t do this, Shaun. I can’t be a part of this.”

Shaun is too frail to be a particularly large threat, but Eleanor’s words are the straw that broke the brahmin’s back. “No! No, you do! You at least owe me an explanation!” he demands. “Tell me why you tossed this all aside! After all this, after everything you’ve seen, all that you’ve learned… You’re just going to walk away? You understand, if you are not with us, then you are against us.”

“How was I supposed to do anything else, Shaun? You’ve turned into the very thing I’ve spent the past year fighting against. I couldn’t let that slide. You don’t even care about that. You’ve spent years, decades, trying to make the perfect synthetic human, and your newest iteration is made of flesh and blood, and you still call them machines. Tell me, do you call yourself human? Because I am certain that your heart is clockwork, and you are nothing but circuitry.”

Shaun’s breath hitches in his throat. “Someday,” he murmurs, “I hope… I hope you’ll understand. Everything I’ve done has been for our future.”

“No,” she says. “Everything you have done has been for _your_ future.”

His gaze drops to the ground, and for the first time since they had stepped onto the roof, he looks ashamed, like a part of him truly regrets his actions. “Whatever you do going forward, do not interfere with the Institute’s plans.”

“And if you interfere with ours,” Arthur says, “we’ll kill you.”

“You, I could believe, but you, Mother?” Shaun raises a brow. “Could you kill your only child?”

“Let’s hope,” she says, “we don’t have to find out.”

He almost laughs at that. “Goodbye, Mother,” he says.

“Goodbye, Shaun,” she whispers, reaching out for him just as he disappears in a flash of blue, electric light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These sketchy pieces are a lot of fun, not gonna lie, especially since I can play around with lighting and colour palettes I don't normally use. Background is a screen cap of the in-game roof scene, and the piece is, rather appropriately, titled _Goodbye, Shaun_. Subtlety? Never heard of her.
> 
> Hit me up on artpixelyna.tumblr.com for actual, completed art pieces, and things for this before their respective chapters are posted <3
> 
> Alternatively, hit me up on pixelyna.tumblr.com for Dragon Age content, and ramblings on my various writing projects. (Comment with your URL and I'll follow you, because boy oh boy is my dash dead, and I want friends.)


	35. Chapter Thirty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: the aftermath of the battle is just as painful as the fight itself, and a new era begins.

People mourn in different ways, but even if both the Brotherhood and the Minutemen have lost good soldiers, today was a victory. Garvey had extended an invitation to all Brotherhood soldiers to return to the Castle where alcohol now pours freely. He isn’t certain where all the casks of ale have come from, but Ronnie Shaw keeps pulling more out of the Castle’s underground tunnels, as well as innumerable bottles of red wine. The funeral pyre glows in the distance, bright orange against the dark night sky.

Arthur watches from afar as his men celebrate their victory, glasses raised in toast before they down their contents in one go. He swirls the ale in the metal mug Garvey had pressed into his hands, watching the amber liquid. Part of him feels like he should be celebrating with them, but he is their commanding officer, and he feels like he shouldn’t intrude.

Ingram and Kells had remained on the Prydwen, their duties too important to abandon, and Danse is drinking with Eleanor’s companions. He supposes he could join them, they are amicable enough now that he doesn’t pose a threat to Valentine, but he doesn’t know them well enough to call them friends. Piper is telling some sort of story, her gestures large and exaggerated, earning loud fit of laughter from Eleanor’s band merry band of misfits. Even Hancock cracks a small smile, the ghoul combing his hand through the fur of Eleanor’s dog.

 Garvey is the only one not with them, busy making friends with Brotherhood knights. Arthur doesn’t know when, but the Lieutenant General had lost his favourite hat some time ago, and genuinely looks like he’s enjoying himself. He can only catch snippets of his conversation with Knight-Captain Durga, but it seems like they are getting along.

He should really promote her, Arthur thinks. She’s been a loyal member of the Brotherhood for years now, and she’s a good soldier.

The Elder lets out a breath, taking a swig of ale, pleasantly surprised by the taste. He’d half expected it to be terrible, but it’s far more palpable than he had thought. Something moves in the corner of his vision, and he catches a glimpse of straw coloured hair before it disappears from view. Quietly, Arthur breaks away from the party, making his way up onto the ramparts where Eleanor had found him the previous night. She hasn’t changed out of her General’s uniform, but it’s all askew; the tie around her neck is too loose, and several of the buttons of her coat are done up in the wrong buttonholes.  The laces of her shoes are untied, and were she not sitting on the ground, knees pulled up into her chest, they might have been a tripping hazard.

And when she glances at him, he notices that her peridot eyes are bloodshot with freshly shed tears.

“You should be celebrating,” she says, voice choked up. “Making friends.”

“A third of them worship me, another third fear me, and the last third couldn’t give a damn about who I am,” he says, taking a seat beside her, “so I’d rather like to stay here, if you don’t mind.”

Eleanor looks at him for a moment, lower lip wobbling but she does not cry. “I don’t,” she says. “I was feeling nauseous,” she mumbles, ripping out the grass that had managed to grow between the cracks in the stones. “It was easy to pretend that I was happy when I was with them. I had to maintain appearances, but once I left to go clear my head… I don’t know. It all just… came crashing down.”

“Are you sick?”

“I… No. I’m not. Just… tired.” She looks away from him, and he knows there’s something she’s not telling him. He doesn’t press her for answers. She’ll tell him when she wants to. “You can go, if you want. You don’t have to stay.”

He’s almost offended that she had even suggested the idea, like it was even a viable option. “Is this about Shaun?” It’s a stupid question. He knows that it is, but he wants to give her a chance to lie to him if only convince herself that she’s okay.

She rests her forehead against her knee, swallowing. “Yeah. I was just thinking… Fuck, I don’t know. I’m just… I’m never going to talk to him again, am I? That was it. When I said goodbye, I wasn’t just saying that I would see him again, I was actually… I was _actually_ saying goodbye. The next time we meet, only one of us will be walking away. You said before that we didn’t have to kill him, but you’ve met him now. Do you see any other choice?”

No. No, he can’t. Shaun embodies all that is wrong with the Institute. Rather than trying to save the Commonwealth with their resources, they hide underground, and wonder why the Wasteland is such a desolate place. Prosperity can only exist when the world is peaceful, when there are no more wars to fight, and wealth can be accumulated rather than spent fighting. “I don’t know,” he says instead of the truth.

She sees right through him. “Yes, you do,” she says. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“I am not going to advise that you kill your son.”

“Why not? You’re not my subordinate. If anyone had the right to, it would be you. And besides…” She lets out a sigh. “I respect you for reasons beyond you being the Elder. I’d like to think that you respect me too, or that you at least respect me enough to tell me the truth when I ask for it. I’ve had enough of secrecy, and lies.”

Eleanor still doesn’t know about Liberty Prime, he realises then. It will be at least another half year before Prime’s assembled, let alone armed, and tested. Ashley has still yet to find the magnets they’ve paid her to find. “This isn’t about whether or not I respect you,” he says quietly. “Because I do. I hope you know that.”

“Then what is this about?”

“This,” he says, “about today being the first time I’ve seen you kill someone. Even the best sharpshooter would have missed that shot you placed on the Courser. No larger than a cap, and moving? Not to mention, half an inch off, and you would have shot me? You landed that shot, Ellie. Quick, and clean. One bullet, and the Courser was dead. You are capable of handling yourself. You don’t need me to protect you.”

She snorts. “If I had known that killing one Courser would have got you to stop worrying about me, I’d have done it months ago,” she jokes, but there’s a solemnness in her voice that gives away her true feelings. “I can’t help but feel even though we’ve won, even though we’ve set the Institute’s plans back by months, perhaps even years, we can’t stop yet. A year, and three days. It took me one year, and three days to say goodbye to my son. A simple task really, and now we have to take down an organisation that has three times the men we do, and four times the resources, and technology neither of us can even begin to understand. How many more people will die if this war wages on for another year? Two? Three? Five? A decade? I can’t—”

He hushes her before she can fall to pieces, gently holding her hand in his own. “We’ll stop the Institute. No matter the cost.”

She meets his gaze. “I can think of one cost I wouldn’t want to pay.”

Arthur swallows; she can’t know, but he thinks the same. He can’t lose her to this war. “If it comes down to it, Ellie—”

“ _No_ ,” she says. “I will not let you die if it means destroying the Institute.”

“We both have our responsibility to our people, Eleanor. One of us has to guide them if the other falls.”

“And I have a duty to you as much as I do to them,” she snaps. “I can barely fathom putting a bullet between the eyes of a stranger who shares my blood. How could I… How could I live with myself, knowing I had killed you?”

 _The same way I lived with myself after Sarah died to protect me,_ he thinks. “I do not fear dying, Eleanor.”

“What is wrong with you that you want to be a martyr so badly? We do not need a martyr, Arthur. We do not need another life lost in this war. The ground is soaked with blood already. Dying is easy. Living is harder.” She looks so anguished, he can’t bring himself to disagree. She almost as tormented by the mere _idea_ of having to kill him as she was when she found out what had happened to Shaun.

Does she truly care for him that much?

Almost answers to almost questions, but almost isn’t good enough.

Not for people like him.

Not for people like _them_.

Eleanor reaches out for him, cupping the side of his face with her smaller hand. She has callouses from her pistol, and even more on the tips of her fingers, earned from hours of building her settlements by hand. “Arthur,” she says quietly, “I will not watch another man I love die.” Then, with a smile: “If you die on me, I’ll bring you back just to kill you myself.”

He chuckles with amusement. How can Institute not see that the Commonwealth has its redeeming qualities? He had hated it once too—it is hollow, and empty, and lifeless on the surface, but beneath… Beneath, he finds hope. Eleanor, and Piper, and Garvey, and Cait, and Hancock, and hell, even Valentine. He can see that humanity is rebuilding, even after two hundred years. It had taken time, but they are recovering.

There is hope for the Commonwealth yet.

He takes the hand she has to his cheek, pressing his lips to her palm. “When you first came aboard the Prydwen,” he says, “I had low expectations of you. You were insubordinate, and disrespectful, and rude, but then…”

  _“I care about them, you know.”_

_She could have said so many things. She could have said that it was clear to see. She could have said she felt the same way. It would have appealed to him, earned her his favour, but she didn’t. She said nothing, and quietly gave his hand a tight, reassuring squeeze—a gesture far too intimate for strangers, but the moment she parted, he found herself longing for her touch. Everything she could have said to him had already been said by others, desperate for the approval of an elder._

_But she does not want his approval._

_“I know,” she said, and somehow, those two words meant more than anything else she could have said._

Eleanor smiles softly, and fuck, if he doesn’t wish he had a working camera right now. He wants to remember her like this forever. She is still grieving for her loss, but she’s happy. She is perplexing in that sense, and he doesn’t understand how she can be so optimistic, even if she’s bitter, and mournful, and angry. Optimism does not normally come easily to those kinds of people. “But then you fell in love with me,” she says.

He inclines his head in agreement. “When did you…?”

“Fall for you?” she finishes. “When I hit Gunny. You weren’t talking to me, and I thought maybe if I… started a row, you would come yell at me. Your anger would have been better than your disregard. And you came running.” She blushes as she remembers what had happened shortly after the fight. “The, ahem, ‘punishment’ made it worth it. You?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “There wasn’t a singular moment. It all added up. When you snuck aboard my ship, when we shared a drink, when we talked that night on the deck after Fort Strong… Perhaps even sooner that that too, when I read your interview in the Publick. I thought that, perhaps, the Commonwealth had a chance with someone like you fighting for it.”

“You can only take it one day at a time,” she says, echoing the words she had spoken half a year ago. Her gaze is far off and distant, as though she is looking back _into_ the past, rather than just at it “Just keep going. That’s all anyone can do.”

Arthur wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. “So we keep going,” he says. “We keep going until the Institute’s dead, or until there’s nothing left to save.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I was saying that my earlier pieces were sketches, _this_ was what they were sketches for. Eleanor's got a pretty specific look in-game, but it doesn't quite match what I had in my head, so I needed to fiddle around with practicing before I was happy. If anyone's interested in getting a completed piece such as this, I'm currently hosting an art giveaway on my tumblr ( artpixelyna.tumblr.com ) for followers. Rules and full list of prizes has been posted there, including a sketched comic I did for this chapter. (Also following me will likely mean you get Untarnished news weeks before anyone else, since I post my art, and their respective quotes from the chapter that inspired it there before I post my chapters here.)
> 
> ANYHOW. ALL THAT ASIDE. Next chapter: It's Christmas Eve, but the news Arthur gets is better than any present he could have received.


	36. Chapter Thirty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: The surprise Arthur receives on Christmas Eve of 2288 officially makes it the happiest day of his life.

With the Institute’s forces temporarily beaten back, the Commonwealth is quieter than it has been in a long time. There are fewer synths than ever, and Arthur doesn’t know if it is because they’ve culled a part of the Institute’s forces, or if they’ve simply gone underground, biding their time. The Brotherhood still has a lot to do, even if the Institute has gone quiet in the two months following the battle of Bunker Hill. The Commonwealth is still full of mutants, and ghouls, not to mention raiders.

The war still isn’t over, but his men have begun to take it a little easier when they’re off duty. Rather than spending their free hours doing drills, and training, they talk, and drink, and play silly games on the communal terminals. Someone had brought out a radio in the mess hall, currently tuned to Diamond City Radio.

Tomorrow is Christmas, and a surprising number of people still celebrate the old world’s holiday. It’s the only reason he doesn’t protest when people start opening up bottles of beer, drinking and dancing as they listen to the radio. Someone had procured an entire crate of lukewarm Nuka-Cola for those who weren’t drinking. A year ago, he’d have protested to this, but he lets them have this. They don’t get many opportunities to relax, and the Institute isn’t foolish enough to dare to attack them on their own ship. Especially not within artillery range of the Castle.

Arthur watches from the corner, smiling as Eleanor unwillingly gets pulled into a dance by Scribe Haylen. Eleanor tries to protest, but Haylen won’t hear it. The General is more than proficient on the battlefield, and she’s a brilliant tactician, but she cannot dance to save her life. Danse has to withhold laughter—Arthur can’t help but think that he looks odd out of his power armour—and as punishment, Eleanor hits him the shoulder, glowering. He catches her fist before the punch can land, and twirls her around to the chorus of _Crawl Out Through the Fallout_.

An appropriate song, he thinks, catching Quinlan’s eye as he stops in the doorway of the mess hall, ready to shut their small party down. The Proctor doesn’t seem all too pleased by the celebrations, but he doesn’t have the authority to override Arthur’s decision to let the soldiers have some fun. Suddenly though, Quinlan freezes, focused on something somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder.

He turns, looking back at Eleanor. His heart almost stops as he sees Danse helping a very pale, and shaking Eleanor up to her feet. The Paladin’s countenance is fraught with concern, but Eleanor simply waves him off, insisting that she’s fine.  Arthur is on his feet in an instant, cutting through the crowd to get to her side. Damn what his men think of his fondness for her. Now is not the time for propriety.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she says to Haylen as the scribe frets over the General. “Really.”

“Med-bay,” Arthur says sharply, ignoring her protests. “Cade. Now.”

Eleanor just glares at him. “I’m not sick.”

“ _Now_.”

She bristles at his tone, her gaze still defiant, and stubborn. But Eleanor knows that she won’t win this argument. She looks to Haylen and Danse, murmuring something he doesn’t catch before she allows herself to be escorted to Cade. Her skin is clammy to the touch, and there’s no mistaking her trembling. For one, brief second, he fears that she’s ill; he fears that her two centuries in the Vault had finally taken a toll on her body over a year later, and she won’t live to see the Institute fall.

 _People like us don’t die in our beds,_ he thinks. _We die in battle, fighting for our cause._

But Eleanor isn’t a soldier, and she’d been taught her skills over the course of months by her more experienced companions.

Cade takes one long look at Eleanor as they enter the room, and wordlessly, he escorts her into the back for a private examination. The Knight-Captain isn’t known for keeping his opinions to himself. If anything, he almost too blunt, too straight to the point. It comes with his profession, he supposes. There’s no way of beating around the bush when difficult medical decisions have to be made.

His silence is nothing but an ill omen.

Arthur sinks down into a chair, raising his hand to press the knuckle of his forefinger to his lip before he catches himself. That seems to be Eleanor’s signature pose when she’s worrying, and it had rubbed off on him. The thought makes him smile ever-so-slightly, as anxious as he is.

She’s starting to rub off on him. Hell, just the other day, he’d asked Teagan if it was possible to stock scented soap in the store. He never used to like cherry flavoured cola either, but Nuka-Cola Cherry now reminds him of her, and he has more than a few bottles stashed around his room. She always calls it “Nuka-Cola Cherry,” never “Nuka-Cherry” for reasons she had once tried to explain though he’d never understood, he notes with wry amusement.

For the longest time too, his quarters on the Prydwen had been all but empty. Nothing more than a simple bed, his terminal and its respective desk, and a couple bottles of alcohol. Now, little trinkets are scattered across the space, most of them gifts from Eleanor that she had picked up in her travels. A few magazines, including an issue of Guns and Bullets titled _The Moon: A Communist Doomsday Device?_ Its contents are absolute nonsense, but Eleanor had found it hilarious that someone could have ever written such a piece with a straight face, and had given it to him. She had also given him a Vault-Tec bobblehead holding a minigun a couple days back, saying that it had reminded him of her.

She’s a strange woman, but he can’t remember the last time anyone had cared enough about him to give him a gift.

His parents had not wed because they loved each other. Jessica and Jonathan Maxson had been paired together by the Western Elders after Jessica’s physical examinations had deemed her fertile enough to have a Maxson heir, as well as having other “admirable qualities” as the Elders had said in a report Arthur had found. He doesn’t know what they had meant by that. Did they mean to say that she was kind? Selfless? Loyal? Or is it simpler than that? He knows that he had inherited the lighter brown patches in his hair from her, but there is almost no trace of Jessica Maxson in any of the Brotherhood’s files. He knows that she had been a scribe, and he’s found reports that had been credited to her, but beyond that, nothing.

He can barely even remember what she looks like anymore.

But Eleanor… History won’t forget a woman like Eleanor. He won’t let them.

“Is dizziness normal for you?” he overhears Cade say from the backrooms, even as the Knight-Captain tries to keep his voice down.

“No,” Eleanor says, equally quiet. “I’m not very resistant to rads, and the food… I figured large quantities Rad-Away wouldn’t be healthy.”

“I’ll talk with the mess officers about getting you some proper meals. They’ll ask questions.”

“Then don’t answer them.” As exhausted as Eleanor sounds, she still has the energy to snap at Cade. It’s somewhat reassuring to know that she is just as sharp with everyone else as she is with Arthur. “Tell them… Fuck, I don’t know. Tell them Arthur ordered it.”

“Then they’ll ask questions about that.”

They still haven’t told the Brotherhood about the nature of their relationship. The Minutemen know, to a certain extent; too many Minutemen know Eleanor on a personal level for her to keep it a secret. The Brotherhood, however… He doubts that people don’t already have suspicions, but the Brotherhood is too militaristic for anyone to comment on it without it being public knowledge.

Someone will have to announce it sooner or later, Arthur thinks.

“I’d rather they ask questions about my personal life than they ask questions about my health,” Eleanor says. “They’ll know about it sooner or later, anyhow.”

Cade says something Arthur doesn’t quite catch, and the Elder turns back to staring at an old pre-War military poster somehow, Cade presumably, had plastered up on the wall. The man in the power armour seems far too cheery, his teeth porcelain white, and his slicked back hair is a little too similar to Danse’s.

A moment later, the door creaks open. There’s a slight touch of colour to Eleanor’s cheeks that hadn’t been there earlier as she shuffles out. She looks twice as exhausted before, eyes bleary, and biting back a yawn.

Arthur glances to Cade, a question in his eyes.

“She’s fine,” Cade assures. “Needs to eat more, but that can be arranged. And, sir, let me be the first to pass on my congratulations.” The Knight-Captain salutes before he ducks out of sick bay without a look back over his shoulder.

The room is quiet for a long moment before Arthur finally decides to break the silence.

“Congratulations?” He had long since learned to not hope for things. Things rarely go as planned in the Wasteland, he cannot be disappointed if there’s nothing to be disappointed over. This time, though, he makes an exception.

Eleanor flashes him a weak, weary smile, her hand settling over her lower stomach. “I wasn’t going to tell you for another couple weeks just in case something happened, but…” She laughs, and her eyes are brimming with tears. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”

There is a lump in his throat, and he swears his heart stops. “You mean…? How long?”

“Two and a half months, and I’m already starting to show,” she says, frowning down at her abdomen, prodding at a swell in her stomach that he hadn’t noticed until she had pointed it out. She looks back up at him, shifting as he gets to his feet. “Are you… Are you happy? I can’t tell.”

They’re having a child. He can barely wrap his mind around it. It seems impossible. It’s not, of course. Birth control is nearly impossible to get in the Wasteland, and he can’t remember a single time either of them had been particularly careful.

They’re having a _child_.

He nearly runs to her to take her in his arms, lifting her up in the air. She shrieks with surprise, laughing. “This,” he says, setting her down on the ground. He cups the back of her head with his hand, pressing his forehead against hers. “This is the _happiest_ day of my life.”

“I was worried you would be angry with me.”

“Angry?” he repeats, shocked. “At something I more than enjoyed taking part in?” He can’t even begin to put his joy into words. He’s going to be a father. Forget everything else, this is the best gift he’s ever received. “I promised you,” he says, thoughts going back to that fateful day in Goodneighbour. “I promised you that I wouldn’t live as long as I lived and breathed. I promised you that I’d stay with you. I have no intention of breaking that promise.” He steps back to look her in the eyes. “I imagine the Western Elders will stop complaining now.”

“We’re not letting them raise our child as a Maxson first, and our child second,” she says quietly. “Their legacy will be their own, it won’t be ours.”

It’s difficult for him to explain why he loves her. She’s loud, and brash. She’s all jagged around the edges, like a shard of glass sharp enough to cut through skin. He knows that most people admire her, or respect her more than they like her. Her dedication to her cause is what draws people to her, like moths to a flame, not her charming personality. But all the hardships she has endured did not make her cruel, as they would have anyone else. She is still as sharp as broken glass, but her suffering had only served to make her swear that no one else endure what she had.

And he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to know her.

“I was raised the way I was,” he says with a chuckle, “because I was an only child. I think we’ll be fine.”

“Christ, Arthur, we haven’t even had one child, and you’re thinking of more?”

“I’m thinking… three.” He pauses. “No more than four. If even one of them is half as stubborn as you are, we’ll have our hands full.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Always thinking of the future, aren’t you?”

“Only futures with you in it, I swear.”

“Romantic,” she mutters under her breath, but he knows she doesn’t mind him as much as she pretends to. “Fuck, Arthur.”

He raises a brow, concerned.

Eleanor meets his gaze, eyes wide. “We’ll have to think of names. And godparents. And make a nursery. And—”

His heart had almost stopped, and the relief he feels is overwhelming. “And you said _I_ was thinking of the future,” he teases. “Names… Names we can work on. I can have the scribes figure something out for the nursery. Quinlan will likely have a few opinions, even if he tries to pretend that he isn’t interested. As for godparents…” He swallows, grimacing. “Our firstborn will be destined to be High Elder, it’s unavoidable.”

Eleanor purses her lips. “The godparents will have to be Brotherhood,” she says. “Thoughts?”

“Ingram, perhaps? Her, ah, physical limitations keep her close to home, and she is rather good with the squires.”

“Ingram,” she repeats in confirmation. “And James.”

“James? As in Danse?” Arthur frowns. He knows the two of them are close, perhaps even closer than Eleanor is with any of her other companions. Piper is a close second, but he knows Eleanor worries too much about leaving Piper’s younger sister without a guardian to take the reporter out on her adventures too often. “You think he would be able to raise a child?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Absolutely not.” Briefly, he wonders if she’s gone insane. “ _But_ he would learn, and he would die to protect them. James is a good man. I trust him.”

There isn’t any way to convince her otherwise, he realises, even if he isn’t against the idea himself. The Paladin has had her back more times than he can count. Even when his recon squad had arrived in the Commonwealth a month before the Prydwen had, Eleanor had already made allies with him. There _is_ a slightly concerning report that’s been sitting on his desk since July saying that she’d nearly burnt him alive during a recovery mission at ArcJet Systems that Arthur had yet to bring up with him. If their friendship can survive an almost-murder, he’s certain Danse will stick by her side, and hers by his, as long as they both live.

He inclines his head. “Danse it is.”

“As for names, I refuse to name our children after my parents. I miss a lot about the old world, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m glad that the bombs killed them.” Her expression sours at the memory of her parents. “Not after what they did to Nate and Shaun. They’re probably rolling in their graves right now. Another child out of wedlock? They’d be _horrified_. But…” A smile tugs at her lips. “I suppose once the Institute is gone…”

 _We’ll think about marrying,_ he finishes.

“I don’t even know your parents’ names,” he says.

“Maximillian and Joanna Ridley,” she grumbles with no small amount of bitterness in her voice.

He hadn’t realised that her last name is hers, and not Nate’s. “You didn’t take Nate’s name?”

“Greene? God no. I had already paid for all my business cards, and I didn’t want to get them reprinted.” There’s another reason that she isn’t telling him, but he drops the subject. Her features soften as she looks down at her hands. “If I get frozen again, I’m going to be _really_ fucking pissed.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he says. “I won’t let the Institute lay another finger on you, ever again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says. A pause, and then: “Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“We’re having a _child_.”

He can’t hold back his smile. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have an entire handwritten page chapter numbers, and the exact date it takes place on, as well as notes on how many days pass between chapters and _why_ that time isn't included (Eleanor in the Glowing Sea, things that will be expanded on... later) because! I am an absolute lunatic! However, it does allow me to very clearly track Eleanor's pregnancy (if anyone's interested, the child was conceived on the 6th of October, 2288, twenty days before the Battle of Bunker Hill... and in Hancock's tub. And now it's current December 24th, 2288.)
> 
> If you think I don't already have the child's entire personality, life, interests, and eventual accomplishments you would be wrong. Will any of that be included in Untarnished? Nope! But I am, as stated previously, an absolute lunatic. Also, I like how I'm just blatantly ignoring canon, but refuse to get my dates muddled up. Another side point: I got a job! So updates will be coming a little slower than usual while I figure out this new schedule, but I'm seeing this through to the end, don't you worry.
> 
> Next chapter: a brief visit from Ashley, and Eleanor and Arthur have an argument over Eleanor's health.


	37. Chapter Thirty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: the author decided that there hasn't been enough angst in quite some time, and wrote an entire 3k chapter dedicated to it. NOT TO MENTION THAT THE AUTHOR ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THIS, BUT TOO LATE NOW.

“Happy New Year.” Arthur barely has the time to register what he’s seeing before he’s getting a bottle of whiskey thrown at his head. He manages to catch it just before it hits the ground. Ashley looks ever-so-slightly different from when he last saw her. The side of her head had been shaved last time, but she has let it grow out—it makes her look younger, somehow. Less like a raider, and more like the woman who had saved the Capital Wasteland. She had shed her leather armour for a simple insulated coat, thrown over a black flight suit he’s certain she had stolen from the Prydwen’s storerooms.

It’s more than just her appearance though, he thinks. The anger that had been in her eyes when she’d last been on the Prydwen is gone; her visible, burning hatred of him is strangely absent, and he isn’t quite certain what to think. If it weren’t for the scars running across her cheek, it would have been like nothing had changed— _it would have been like Sarah hadn’t died._

Warily, Arthur sets the bottle down on his dresser. He doesn’t drink much anymore, especially not when Eleanor’s around. Before it had been a matter of her own personal health, and she had been allowed to make several stumbles on the way to recovery. Now, however… Her health isn’t just her own anymore. Perhaps he’ll re-gift it to Ingram. “New Year’s was yesterday.”

“The second, the first, all the same, isn’t it?” Ashley mumbles, sitting atop his table, her legs swinging. “Regardless, I come bringing gifts.”

Arthur raises a brow. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes, well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, hm?” He notices the glint of Sarah’s brooch underneath her coat, pinned to her shirt, just above her heart. “The magnets you had me run all over the Commonwealth to find—I gave them to Ingram. Sorry it took so long. They were a right bitch to find.”

“Then I’ll arrange payment.”

“No need,” she says. “I don’t need caps. Found enough during my travels as it is, and it was, uh, good to catch up with Mac. Haven’t seen him in a while.” She looks down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Haven’t seen a lot of people from my old life in a while,” she murmurs.

He carefully pulls a chair away from the table, eyes not leaving her once. He sinks into the seat, arms folded across his chest. There’s no reason for him to be so defensive. Even if she doesn’t like him, she’s not stupid enough to try to kill him, but her friendliness is… unnerving. “You did that to yourself,” he says. “You were always welcome in the Brotherhood.”

“Elder Lyons made me a knight without asking if I wanted to be one, you mean.” She picks at the hem of her shirt, plucking out charcoal threads, and sweeping them onto the floor. “But I was never a part of the Brotherhood. I only stayed because of Sarah.”

“I know,” he says. “So why are you here?”

“I told you: I come bearing gifts.” She rummages around in the pocket of her coat, pulling out a small square box wrapped in newspaper. “When I was at the castle with Dez, I was there for reasons beyond being her bodyguard. She wanted me to, how did she put it? Scope out the enemy? Something along those lines. Apparently the Railroad’s other spies had either left the Railroad after they returned from the Castle, or they switched sides. She wanted to figure out why.”

Arthur’s already dreading the long talk he’ll need to have with Eleanor. The Minutemen will have to fortify their defences, and be more careful of who they accept into their ranks. Though he suspects Eleanor’s already aware of the Railroad’s machinations, if she’s been converting their spies to her side. It’s not all that surprising to hear. She’s trying to protect all innocents, synths or otherwise. She is, however, far more open about her plans than Desdemona is, and damned be any security risks that may come about from not segregating information.

“You find anything interesting?” he asks tightly.

“Oh don’t get all angry,” she sighs. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was done with Dez. You were right. I give you all this shit for Sarah being disappointed in you, but I’m basically doing the same thing. _And_ you’re a lot less self-righteous about it.”

“Are you saying that you were wrong?”

“I don’t think you’re ever going to get those _exact_ words out of me, Maxson, but essentially…” She looks away. “Yeah.”

He uncrosses his arms, a little less defensive now. “Then I thank you.”

“You’re not going to thank me in a minute,” she says ominously. “While your girlfriend was talking with Dez, I admit I poked around in her office while people weren’t looking at me, and I found something. You’re not going to like it.”

“If you’re trying to make reparations with me, Ashley, this is not the best way of doing it.”

“I wouldn’t have brought it up unless I thought it was important.” The Lone Wanderer hops off the table, wringing her hands as she begins to pace. “I have friends on the Prydwen. People I care about. Quinlan, Ingram, Kells, Durga… I don’t have much of a right to worry about them since _I’m_ the one who left, but… I found a holotape under a stack of papers, like someone had tried to hide it. Stole it just to see what was on it, and it was a copy of everything in the Institute’s systems.”

He’s not surprised. Eleanor’s more likely to be over prepared for something than under prepared, and she’d had spent almost two weeks in enemy territory learning their secrets. She isn’t obligated to share the Minutemen’s secrets with the Brotherhood either, even if this would have helped them in the fight.

“I trust her judgement,” he says. “She likely has her reasons.”

Conflict is written across Ashley’s face, as though she debates whether or not she should continue talking about the subject.  “I stole a copy of the Brotherhood records when I left,” she admits a moment later.

“I’m starting to think I should have you thrown in the brig, Ashley.”

“We both know I’d just break out, but that isn’t the point.” She turns away from him, sighing. “It wasn’t important information, anyhow. Not anything my security clearance couldn’t have got me. Guard rotations, inventory lists, and personnel files, mostly, but when I was going through the Institute’s files, I found something that struck me as… weirdly familiar. Like I had seen it somewhere before. They had a list of runaway synths—synths the Railroad had wiped, and helped escape. There was a synth by the name of M7-97 who was reported to have been relocated to the Capital Wasteland where ‘it was picked up by enemy forces.’ They included the synth’s genetic code, as well as a whole slew of information.”

“What are you saying?”

“I went back and checked the Brotherhood’s record, Maxson. M7-97 is a perfect match for Paladin Danse.”

He feels like he has just swallowed a mouthful of sand. Danse is a trusted soldier, perhaps even a friend, and Eleanor’s proposed godfather of their child. “Are you sure?” he says, hoping to _God_ that she’s wrong. That she’s made some small mistake that would make this all a lie.

“About ninety percent, yeah,” she says. “That box contains the holotape. You can confirm it for yourself. I knew Danse. I hope it’s not true. Maybe my Brotherhood records were corrupted, but if it _is_ true…”

His stomach is in knots, twisting and turning. A synth in the Brotherhood’s ranks, and a paladin at that… Danse has never shown any signs of being a synth. Hell, he’s one of the Brotherhood’s best soldiers. The Minutemen might allow synths into their ranks, but the Brotherhood does not, not under any circumstances. The Brotherhood has to ensure that there’s no chance of a synth reporting Brotherhood secrets back to the Institute.

If what Ashley’s saying is true…

They’ll have to kill Danse.

Arthur grits his teeth, inhaling sharply. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he says, but they both know he isn’t thankful. Not in any way, shape, or form. But she could have kept the information from him, could have given it to the Railroad instead, and she didn’t. For that, at least, he is grateful. “I will speak to Proctor Quinlan about this.”

She inclines her head. “I will be in Diamond City if you need me,” she says quietly. “I’d call myself a gun-for-hire, but I’m not exactly accepting payment.”

“You could come back to the Brotherhood,” he says as she starts towards the door, not waiting to be dismissed. “There’s always a position for you in our ranks, Knight Garcia.”

She hesitates in the doorway, and he can see her swallow. “I’ll think about it,” she says. “It would be nice to not be the Lone Wanderer for a while, I imagine.”

He doesn’t say anything as she leaves, looking down at the wrapped package in his hands in absolute silence. He almost wants to throw it off the forecastle, ignoring the security risk of having a synth amidst their ranks. They’ve been so careful, but Gen 3’s, as Eleanor has pointed out several times, are nearly indistinguishable from humans.

Could a synth have slipped past their defences? Could they really have been so careless?

“Was that Ashley?” Eleanor asks, frowning, as she steps into his quarters, holding two trays of food. She sets them down on the table, taking a seat, and gestures for him to sit with her.

In an attempt to keep up appearances—though as the weeks pass, it’s becoming remarkably more difficult to hide the swell to her stomach—Eleanor bunks with the rest of the men rather than taking up residence in in his quarters. It’s a sore subject, and one they’ve argued about several times since she had told him that she’s expecting. The morning sickness that had started to affect her is becoming worse, and he doesn’t want her to run to the communal baths every time she feels like she’s going to be sick. Not when he’s got a bathroom of his own.

Appearances, she says, as though she doesn’t spend every minute of her free time with him, stealing moments when she can.

Arthur slowly sinks into the chair across from her, but barely touches his food, pushing it around the plate rather than eating it. “Yes,” he says. “She came by to… talk.”

He doesn’t like withholding the truth from her, but he can’t forget that she’s still a knight. This information must be kept confidential. He doesn’t want to know what she would do if she found out he was going to investigate Danse on suspicion of being a synth, with death being the price for failure.

Pregnant though she may be, he’s certain she’d still unleash her full fury upon him.

Eleanor raises a suspicious eyebrow, but mercifully drops the subject. “I have to ask you something, and before you say anything, I’d like to remind you that policy states that I report directly to Danse, and not to you, unless otherwise specified.”

This already does not bode well.

“The Chain That Binds.” He knows the policy, had been force to memorise it back when they had been with the Western chapters. For the most part, it is largely ignored, used to depose of failing elders more than anything else. His men revere him too much to worry about it, immediate superiors more than willing to change their previous orders to match his own. “You read the Brotherhood’s policies.”

“And Code of Conduct, and Codex,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep last night. The Codex has an entire section on you.”

“I’m aware,” he sighs. “In the heat of the hottest fire, the last son’s soul is forged from eternal steel. He will unite the Forgotten with the Remembered, and the Remembered with the Forgotten. With gold and steel, under a banner of a sword lit by lightning, he will usher in a new dawn.”

She cracks a small smile. “Forced you to memorise it, did they?”

“On more than one occasion.” Arthur can’t bring himself to eat a single mouthful of the ground brahmin and rice before him. “Why do you bring this up?”

“I’ve been ordered to go to the Glowing Sea to secure a storage facility full of bombs, accompanied by Danse. Even though I do not technically _need_ your permission, I wanted it.”

“Absolutely not.” His response comes instantly. He hadn’t even considered saying yes. “Radiation is not healthy for you. Not in your current state. Not to mention the countless dangers of the Glowing Sea.”

“ _Current state_?” she repeats, and he knows that he had not given her the answer she wants to hear. “I’m _pregnant_ , Arthur, not _dying_. And you say that like radiation is healthy even to a _non_ -pregnant person. As for the dangers, I can handle myself.”

“Oh, are you going to take precautions, are you? Your power armour has been with Ingram since you retrieved the plans for the Signal Interceptor from the Glowing Sea, and I have reports that say you went back there for scrap when you were building said Signal Interceptor. You despise wearing it, and too much Rad-Away would not be healthy. Are you intending on changing your opinion of power armour, or do you intend on risking the health of our child?” He realises too late just how bitingly angry he sounds, his exhaustion from thinking about the investigation into Danse leaking into his voice. “I will have your orders changed.”

“You will _not_ ,” she snaps. “I understand why you show me preferential treatment, but you can’t. Another Brotherhood policy.”

“You are my subordinate, Eleanor,” he says narrowing his eyes. “I do not care about policies. Not when it comes to this. You will follow my orders.”

“Your _subordinate_?” Eleanor’s voice is all but a snarl as she gets to her feet, leaning forward on her palms to glare at him. “You use that excuse on _far_ too many occasions, Arthur.”

“Because you _are_ my subordinate.”

“I am the _mother_ of your _child_!” The anger in her raised voice makes him grimace. He has no reason to give in to her wants. He is the elder of this chapter, and he will give the orders he sees fit, including ordering Danse to take a different knight with him to the Glowing Sea. Hell, he might even order Danse to stay behind, if only while they conduct the investigation. They don’t want him fleeing. He has every right to give her orders, especially when they concern both the safety of her, and their child—

And then, someone coughs.

He whips his head around to notice Kells in the open doorway, clearing his throat. His dark skin is flushed with embarrassment, and the scribes and knights milling in the hall can’t bring themselves to look in his direction.

Arthur realises that Eleanor had not closed the door behind her when she’d come in.

They had heard everything.

The blonde haired General wastes no time, quickly closing the distance between her and the door, and slamming it shut. Her hands are curled into fists as she leans against the now-closed door, taking in deep, slow breaths to try to calm herself. “Not the way I wanted the Brotherhood to find out,” he overhears her mutter to herself. Eleanor doesn’t turn around as she says, louder, “I’m going to the Glowing Sea, Arthur, and I’d rather have your permission than have to disobey you.”

His mouth is as dry as the deserts of New Vegas. “Why ask permission when you intend on doing what you want?”

“When I intend on following orders,” she shoots back. “That’s what you wanted, right? A complacent trophy wife for you to show off to the Western Elders to show them that you haven’t failed the Maxson name?”

“Is that what you truly think I want?” he asks quietly, feeling like he’s just been punched in the stomach.

Eleanor glances back at him over her shoulder. “Sometimes, yeah,” she whispers, voice choked up with angry tears. “I leave in three days. Change your mind.” A pause, and then, “ _Please_.”

He remains silent.

“You know,” she murmurs, “the Minutemen’s banner is a musket against a bolt of lightning.”

She doesn’t look back at him as she marches out of the room, arms wrapped around herself. Her shoulder collides with Kells who hadn’t budged from the door, almost sending the Lancer-Captain to the ground. She mumbles an apology, and from the slam of a door that follow a moment later, locks herself in Danse’s room.

Kells shifts from one foot to the other, clutching onto a clipboard in his hands—no doubt a request he needs Arthur to approve before the Lancer-Captain can resume his duties. But Kells doesn’t give him the clipboard. Instead, he sets it down on the dresser next to Ashley’s wrapped holotape with a nervous smile. “Congratulations, sir. On the child.”

He’s a good man, and has never been anything but faithful. Arthur can’t think of a better second, but right now… Right now he can’t even look at anyone without wanting to punch a wall. “Get out,” he growls.

“Yes, sir,” he says, knowing him well enough to know when to leave him alone. He quickly steps out of the room, shutting the door shut with a quiet _click_ behind him.

Arthur lets out an angry sigh as he’s left by himself, shoving the tray of food away from him. His hands are curled into fists so tight that his nails leave small, crescent shaped indents in the soft skin of his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a surprise, and a punishment, and neither of them are altogether unpleasant.
> 
> Since I posted this by accident, I'd like to use this as an opportunity to mention that the art giveaway going on over at artpixelyna.tumblr.com has only two weeks left so follow, and reblog! Rules and conditions are over there.


	38. Chapter Thirty Eight [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one asked for dom!Eleanor/sub!Arthur smut, but you're getting it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Eleanor takes control, and Arthur has no choice but to give it to her.

It isn’t that he hates Eleanor, Arthur tells himself, lying awake at night. They don’t argue as often as they do because they’re bad together. Couples that don’t argue can sometimes be worse off together than the ones that do. His parents never fought, never in front of him at least, but he knows that they were not, and had never been, friends. Rather than admit to the problems they had, they kept their thoughts bottled up inside, let it fester and turn to a quiet sort of hatred.

He and Eleanor fight because they’re similar enough to know when the other is being dishonest. They fight because she’s stubborn, and so is he, but their parents both taught them to keep their problems locked away, and they lash out rather than sit down, and try to talk. He’s trying to be better about it, but her latest request…

Her latest request is nothing but absurd.

It was dangerous enough letting her go the last time, when she hadn’t been pregnant, when she had been able to dose up on Rad-Away and not worry. This time, the stakes are higher, and though he doesn’t want to admit it, _he’s scared._

He’s read the reports from Cade. The man does his best, but he’s a doctor, not a miracle worker, and with the Wasteland’s limited resources, there’s only so much he can do when complications arise during pregnancy. They’ve lost more than a handful of good soldiers, good scribes— _good women_ to something that would have been preventable in Eleanor’s day.

If he lost her, he doesn’t know what he would do with himself.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night, wondering if he should go after her in an attempt to explain his reasoning, in hopes that she would understand, but he doesn’t know if she would even hear him out. She needs her time, needs space.

But his room is eerily quiet without her.

She doesn’t stay the night— _as though appearances matter now that they all know she carries his child_ —but she stays late, and they spend hours talking about nothing until one of them is too exhausted to see straight. He has become used to her stories of the world pre-War.

He doesn’t know which hurts more: her absence, or her anger.

It is almost dawn by the time he drifts off, alarm set to wake him in four hours— _as though such little sleep is healthy, and isn’t the primary reason as to why he looks a decade older than he is._ His dreams are just as fitful as he is, coming in brief, short flashes that disappear before he can make sense of the colours.

_Lilacs, and gold, and a musket—no? A sword?—lit by lightning._

And cold metal digging into his wrists, but that’s—

Wait—

Hold on—

Arthur’s eyes open, but it’s useless. His room is dark, and he can’t see a thing. Certain shadows are darker than others, but what does that matter? Black against black, with only the faint outline of the object’s true nature. He does not need to see, however, to know that the metal encircling his wrists is most _definitely_ not a dream.

He tries to pull away, to pull free, but he can’t move his arms. The metal cuffs rattle as he shakes them against the metal frame of the bed. And then, the entire room lights up bright green.

Eleanor sits at the table, Pip-Boy in front of her, and its screen serving as a flashlight. He’s reminded of that night in Goodneighbour, after she had almost died. She had almost been gaunt then, having not eaten after she had fled the Institute, supplementing food with chems. She had been manic, and wide-eyed, fearful that he had just been an image conjured up from her drug-addled brain.

She isn’t fearful now.

She is collected, and poised, her loose hair settling down around her shoulders. The tight-fitting Vault has made a return; the cobalt fabric is almost teal in the green light. Eleanor picks a fallen piece of hair from her thigh, letting the single strand flutter to the ground. “Comfortable?” she asks, so calm it’s almost unnerving. He can’t tell what she’s thinking behind those peridot eyes. “I’m fine with letting you take control. Most times. But if my poor behaviour is going to get me punished… Then so is yours.”

“Eleanor—”

He hardly sees her move, but in a blur, she’s straddling him, pinning him to the bed with her hand clapped over his mouth. “You do not _speak_ unless I tell you to,” she snarls, and the ferocity in her voice sends shivers down his spine. “You do not _move_ unless I tell you to. You do not _come_ unless I tell you to. Do I make myself absolutely _clear_?”

He doesn’t have a choice in the matter, not really, though they’ve established their boundaries well enough that if he told her to stop, that he couldn’t do this, he knows she wouldn’t waste a single second. For now, though…

He’s almost interested in seeing where this goes.

Arthur inclines his head in a nod.

“Good,” she purrs, scraping a fingernail along the outline of his jaw, nail catching on the hairs of his beard.

Her hand continues downwards to his bare chest— _he’s really starting to regret having fallen into bed with nothing but his briefs after his shower, too drained to stand up and cross the room to his dresser_ —and he has to fight back the groan in his throat as her fingers follows the curls of his hair.

“I am capable,” she says slowly, “of making my own decisions, but believe it or not, I care about what you think of me, and what I do. _You_ undermined me. _You_ thought I had not thought my plan through. You assumed. And you shouldn’t have. You should be sorry.”

The words escape him before he can stop them; he’s too curious to find out what she will do to him now that the tables are turned. “I am.”

“That was not me giving you permission to speak,” she reprimands. “And no, you’re not.” Eleanor palms his bulge with the palm of her hand, smiling at the choked whine that escapes him. He’s already hard, and she’s noticed. “Are you, Arthur?”

He can feel his cheeks flush with shame. “No,” he says. “I worry about you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Her hand is replaced with her thigh as she adjusts her position atop him, and it’s somehow worse than her hand. He can feel every twitch of her body as she balances herself, inadvertently pressing herself up against him. At least her hand had been still. He could block it out. Even the smallest movement makes him feel like he’s on fire.

And the wicked woman _smiles_.

He wants— _needs?_ —to hold onto something— _her?_ —but he can’t. His hands are tied above his head, and God, he’s always the one in control. He doesn’t give it up. Not for anything. But Eleanor isn’t just “anything,” and he finds himself almost wanting to submit to her indomitable will.

He pulls against his restraints, damned be composure, and refusing to appear desperate before her. It shakes the bed, but the chains do not break.

“Please,” Eleanor scoffs, the only real sign that she hadn’t rehearsed this in her head before coming here. “You’d have to pick your way out of those, and you’re _terrible_ with locks. If you want out of them, you’re going to have to beg me. Me, and my forgiveness.”

He groans out of frustration, leaning his head back against the frame. His pride will let him admit that he wants her, but to say it out loud? To her?

“You’ll cave. Eventually,” she says, as though she can read his mind. She knows him well enough that she doesn’t need to. He is proud, and he is stubborn _—and they both know she will break him._

He closes his eyes in an attempt to remain focused as she slowly pulls down the zipper of her suit, exposing her bare chest. The image is almost burned into the back of his eyes. Her nipples are larger now, areolas darker, and her breasts fuller. Veins stand out against the pale skin even in the faint light emanating from the Pip-Boy on the table. He can feel the soft swell to her abdomen as she leans forward, thigh still trapped between his legs.

Eleanor scrapes her teeth alongside a nipple, her breasts brushing his chest. _Closing his eyes_ , he determines, _was absolutely useless_. Just as he leans into her touch, she presses a hand down on his sternum, and sits back up.

“Watch me,” she says, and his eyes snap open of their own accord. Her Vault suit hangs from her hips. He doesn’t dare move, watching in absolute silence as she keeps one hand on his sternum, and brings the other up to her neck.

God, that _neck._ How many times has he marked it? How many others had caught glimpses of his affections beneath the shield of her golden hair?

Slowly, she trails her down over her right breast, toying with her pebbled nipple between two fingers. A familiar blush spreads over her chest and throat before reaching her cheeks, but she pays it no mind. Her hand moves downwards, resting for a brief second over her swollen stomach before disappearing beneath the waist of her Vault suit.

 _Fuck_ , he says to himself as he watches her hand move beneath the fabric, and he can smell the unmistakable scent of her arousal. He can barely hear himself think over the pounding in his ears as her lips fall open in pleasure. He bucks against her thigh, but she presses even harder down with the hand still on his chest, a mischevious glint in her eyes.

“This,” she says, her breath ragged. “This isn’t yours. I do not _belong_ to you.” She removes her hand from inside the Vault suit, and her fingers are slick with her arousal. She places them to his lips, silently asking if she should continue, but it isn’t necessary. He takes her fingers in his mouth, her arousal sweet with a slight salty aftertaste. She blinks, surprised, not expecting him to be so compliant. “You do not control what I do. Do you understand that?”

She snarls when he doesn’t reply, removing her finger from his lips to wrap her hand around his throat. The nails dig into his skin, pricking at the flesh. He’s certain that he would find small, crescent shapes bruises in the morning. “Do you understand that?” she repeats. “Do you understand that though I might _ask_ for your permission I do not _need_ it? Do you understand that, no matter your affections for me, no matter my rank in the Brotherhood, I am your _equal_? Do you understand that our child is just as much mine as they are yours?”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes.”

“Yes, _what_?”

He doesn’t know what she wants to hear from him, but he takes a guess anyway. “Yes, General.”

“Good,” she croons, pleased to hear her title on his lips, pleased to hear him submit to her when he submits to no other. “Because if you _ever_ think that you own me, if you _ever_ think that I will be a trophy wife you can show if off, if you _ever_ think that you can control me, I will show you the fury of a woman scorned.”

 _God help me_ , he thinks, _this woman will be the death of me._

But if he is to die, he would be proud to die at her hands. She is a thunderstorm; unpredictable, and destructive, and she does not care if anything stands in her way. She will rage, and he pities the fool who would try to contain her. He had been born to his title, even if he had done his part years later, but she had worked for hers, and had to earn the respect she now deserves.

Eleanor smiles down at him, the expression nothing but ominous, and almost frightening. She’s not a particularly muscular person—her silhouette soft, and rounded, having not known a life of much hardship until she’d found herself in the Commonwealth—but he knows she could kill him with her bare hands. Paladin Gunny is one of his best soldiers, his form immaculate, and able to shoot anything with pinpoint accuracy. Even he had been unable to stand his ground against her anger, form meaning nothing against rage, and now his nose will forever be off-centre from the time she had broken it in three places.

His cock is almost painfully hard now, the tip leaking precum that leaves a small damp patch in the front of his briefs. “Eleanor,” he groans. “ _Please_.”

“Are you begging?” She raises a single brow. “Because if you are, you’re going to have to try a lot fucking harder than that.”

He scrunches his eyes shut as she tugs the elasticated waist of his briefs down over his member. She toys with it almost idly, trying to see just how light of a touch will have him hissing through his teeth. Every gentle twist is followed by the prick of her fingernails, forcing any pleasure to quickly ebb away.

Arthur is used to getting what he wants. He is not used to begging. “I need…” he starts. “I need…”

She smiles. “You need…?” she prompts. “You’re good with your words, Arthur. So use them.”

“ _You_ ,” he groans, bucking up into her hand as she tightens her grip, desperate for any amount of friction. This time, she does not force him to still. “To be in you. To touch you. _Please_.”

She doesn’t reply, stepping off the bed, and for a second, he fears that she intends on leaving him there. Arthur Maxson, the last Maxson heir, Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel, chained naked to his bed for all to see.

Eleanor, however, does not intend to leave him there. She steps away only to remove her Vault suit, letting it fall to the floor in a pile of cobalt fabric and gold trim. Even from here, he can see that the insides of her thighs are slick with her own arousal, and she wears no undergarments to hide the downy ash brown hair covering her mound.

“If I _ever_ have to have this conversation with you again,” she warns, “I will leave you here like this, and prop the door open so anyone passing by can see you. Clear?”

For some reason, the thought doesn’t turn him off as much as he had thought it would.

He isn’t given a chance to respond, Eleanor sinking down onto his rock-hard member without warning. After the light, feathery touches, followed by sharp flashes of pain, the sensation is overwhelming. Spots dance in front of his vision, and all he can feel is her tight, wet heat around him. She squeezes experimentally, earning another desperate pull against his bindings, making her laugh.

And then she begins to move, slowly at first, before starting to pick up the pace. She rocks against him, hand on his chest to keep herself upright. The light catches every rounded angle of her; three months pregnant, and he’s never seen anyone more stunning. The coldness of the cuffs is the only thing that keeps him grounded, otherwise he might have thought that he’s dreaming.

It would explain how she’s managed to turn the tables on him so quickly, and so easily.

But not even his wildest dreams can conjure up something such as this. He doesn’t have the imagination to dream of her riding him, one hand on him, and the other rubbing at her clit. He can’t control his urges, so oversensitive from her gentle build-up of touches that had left him aching for her, and he meets her thrust with one of his own.

“Come for me, Arthur,” she says in a low rasp, and her words finally push him over the edge.

His orgasm sweeps over him in a wave of heat that leave him feeling boneless, almost limp as he watches her continue to rub herself, his cock slowly shrinking inside of her, as she chases her own release. Her movements become more erratic, and now that she’s the one on top, he can clearly see every ripple of muscle as she tenses up.

If he had believed in a god, he would have thanked them for sending her to him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she hisses, biting down on her lip as she collapses atop him, the clenching of her inner walls making his cock twitch, his body ready for another round although he isn’t quite certain if his mind is. Eleanor hides her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling ragged breaths as she tries to still her racing heart.

A minute later, she looks up at him, pupils less dilated now than they had been a moment ago. “I suppose I should un-cuff you, shouldn’t I?” she says quietly.

“That would be…” He doesn’t want her to get the wrong impression. He doesn’t want her to think that he hadn’t enjoyed this. “Appreciated.”

She yawns, and reaches behind him to a chair she had placed there earlier without him noticing. A small, silver key glints in the light as she undoes his cuffs with a quiet _click_. They hang from the bedframe, empty, as he rubs at his wrists. He will have to wear sleeves for the rest of the week, at least. Already he knows that he will have bruises from where he had pulled against his restraints.

“Next time,” he says, “we get padded cuffs.”

“Next time?” she says, blinking. “You want there to be a next time?”

“I do not think I could take this as a regular occurrence,” he says, letting out a sigh as she presses her lips to the red marks on his wrists. “However, I might be… _persuaded_ to do this once in a while, if your punishments continue to not be punishments at all.”

She laughs against his skin. “I admit that there were a few times I worried that I was pushing you too far.”

He cups the side of her face, forcing her to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “You’re right. I can’t control you.”

“It’s as you said: you worry about me. I understand. I worry about you too, but this… This has to be done. And you can’t make a special exception for me because I’m, well, me. Favouritism is against Brotherhood policy, you know.”

“Who’d have thought you gave a damn about policy?”

Eleanor smiles. “I don’t. I only care when it helps me get something out of you.”

“Next time,” Arthur murmurs, pulling her closer for a kiss, “let’s talk it out over a cup of coffee, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I've been wanting to write this since I wrote the first scene at the Rexford. Eleanor's more than happy to be submissive, but cross her, and she's more than willing to do whatever it takes to get the point across. And if that's through sex, so be it.
> 
> I think that says a lot about her, really. ~~Or maybe it says more about Arthur.~~
> 
> Next: Revelations, and betrayals, and a request that Eleanor can't fulfill.


	39. Chapter Thirty Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: There is blood on Eleanor's hands, and Arthur does not know if he can ask her to stain them red once more.

Arthur’s stomach turns as he looks down at the files before him. His grip on the paper folder has left small indentations where his fingers had been, but no matter how much he wants to throw the files from the forecastle, he can’t deny the truth that’s printed there in black and white text.

“You are certain,” he says slowly, trying to remain composed, “that this is accurate?”

Senior Scribe Neriah is a good woman. She has never stepped out of line, and she does everything she can to ensure that the results she produces from her experiments and tests are as accurate as possible. He shouldn’t doubt her, but he does. He wants a reason for the information to be wrong. “I checked it three times before I submitted it to Proctor Quinlan, sir,” she says, furrowing her brows, “and I checked it three more before bringing it to you.”

“And I confirmed the results myself.” Quinlan is just as uneasy as Arthur is, though likely for different reasons. “The DNA sample matches the one we have on file, as well as the new sample.”

“Elder Maxson,” Neriah starts almost timidly. “May I ask why I was comparing Paladin Danse’s sample to the sample provided by Proctor Quinlan?”

Her question means that Quinlan has been treating this matter with the utmost secrecy. That much, at least, is reassuring even if the contents of the file make him want to leave the Commonwealth to burn. Nothing about this place is inviting. Every problem they solve, two more arise in its place. “No,” says Arthur. “You are dismissed, Scribe.”s

She glances, confused, at Quinlan, but the Proctor is stony-faced, and gives nothing away. Neriah salutes, hand over her chest. “Ad Victoriam.”

“Ad Victoriam,” he returns, not nearly as enthusiastic as she had been. Arthur turns to look at Kells. “We have to keep this quiet. If the General hears of this… We won’t ever see him again. She’ll take him into hiding. You’ve issued an alert across all Brotherhood channels?”

“I have, sir. It should be going out right about now.”

“Then, Proctor Quinlan—”

“I had my scribes try to figure out where he might go,” he says. “But there are still a few important matters we have yet to discuss. Any breaches of security that this might have caused, how we intend on finding him, what we intend on doing _when_ we find him—”

“The fact that you’re having a child, and neglected to tell any of us,” Ingram mutters from the corner.

Arthur freezes. “There were other things on my mind,” he says. “I did not find out until recently. Eleanor kept it from me until she could be certain. We had not intended on announcing it.”

“My apologies, sir, for walking in on what was clearly a private affair,” says Kells, clearing his throat.

Teagan snorts from one of the sofa. “The door was open,” Arthur hears him mutter, but lets the remark slide. It isn’t worth starting a fight with him. Not when there’s so many other things that need his attention.

“Have we heard anything from the General and…” He doesn’t know what to call Danse anymore. He’s a friend. _Was_ a friend. But the Brotherhood has rules, and he can’t just let a synth who knows their secrets walk free. Six months ago, he’d have referred to Danse as a machine, an abomination. Valentine had proved that some machines are more humans than men made of flesh and blood.

“Yes,” Quinlan says. “Fortunately, they have found the stash of bombs we need for Prime. It took them less time than I had imagined it would. A week? I daresay it’s almost impressive. Unfortunately, however, Danse has stayed behind secure the stash, and protect it from the various dangers of the Glowing Sea. My scribes reported that Knight, er, General Ridley boarded a vertibird and is on her way back here now. Fortunately, that means we know where Danse is. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone blocked Danse’s access to our channels, and now knows we’re coming for him.”

The room is silent, each leader looking to the other to confirm that they had done it. But no one steps up to say that they had.

“ _Shit_ ,” hisses Ingram. “He’s going to run.”

“What else would he do when it comes to his attention that all members of the Brotherhood are to shoot him on sight?” says Quinlan. “Ridley might know where he would go. I have heard that they are friends.”

“But then she would be responsible for the death of her closest friend,” Arthur murmurs. Can he do that to her? Can he look her in the eyes, and order her to kill Danse? The man she had chosen as their child’s godfather? They hadn’t even brought up the subject with him, or Ingram yet, but the fact still remains.

_Can he ask her to kill Danse without her resenting him forever?_

He doesn’t know the answer.

“She’s a fighter. A leader,” says Teagan. “She knows what has to be done.”

That doesn’t answer his question. He has to choose between doing right by the Brotherhood, and doing right by her, and he doesn’t know which he will choose. He knows what he _wants_ to choose, but people like him don’t get the luxury of following their heart’s desires.

He lets out a breath through clenched teeth, watching as the sun set down over the horizon. “I will speak with her,” he says. “If someone could send her to me when she arrives…”

“Of course,” says Quinlan. “Naturally, sir.”

Arthur doesn’t like waiting. He is too used to instant gratification to have any amount of patience, but he doesn’t have a choice. He waits, sitting at the table in his room until his toes start to lose all feeling. He tries to plan out what he will say to Eleanor when she shows up, but every conversation he can imagine ends with a fight, and her walking out the door. He can’t even accuse her anger of being unfounded. If she had been the one asking him to kill his friend—Ingram, perhaps—he knows his rage would know no bounds.

But even if she’s not the one pulling the trigger, Arthur knows Danse still has to die.

“Well.” Eleanor’s voice is shaky, worried, as though she is already concerned though she does not yet know what he is about to ask of her. “This does not bode well.”

“I…” He has had well over an hour to himself, and still he struggles to speak. If she had been nothing more than one of his subordinates, he knows he would be able to give her the orders without blinking. But she is much, much more than one of his subordinates.

 _She said it last week; she’s the mother of my child,_ he thinks.

“I made coffee,” Arthur says.

She raises a brow. “I noticed. I wish I could drink it.” He is about to ask why, but she glances down at her stomach before meeting his gaze. “Not healthy.”

He reaches across the table to pour her coffee into his empty glass. “It’s cold anyhow,” he mumbles, downing the cold, bitter liquid with a grimace.

Eleanor hesitates before she sinks into the chair across from her. “First of all, that’s disgusting. Second, what is this about?”

The taste of coffee coats the inside of his mouth, the sharpness giving him something to focus on while he looks down at the stained cup in his hands. “I didn’t want you to leave,” he murmurs. “Nor did I want to wake up chained to a bed again.”

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “You said if we had a problem we should talk it out over a cup of coffee next time.” His inability to meet her gaze makes her wary. “Arthur,” she says slowly, “what’s going on?”

“The…” God, he needs a drink, but he needs a clear mind right now. “The Brotherhood’s rules are… different from the Minutemen’s. We have different policies. Different standards.”

“I’m aware.”

“So I ask you to consider that before I continue. I have my own orders. I have expectations I have to meet.”

Eleanor frowns. “Okay…?”

He pushes his chair out, pacing the length of the table as he wrings his hands. He feels antsy, trapped, like he should be running laps, not confined to his room aboard a metal balloon in the sky. “When you went to the Institute, you made a copy of their files on a holotape. You kept that from me.”

She blinks, surprised that he knows about the tape, but doesn’t seem angry. Yet. “Yeah,” she says, not even trying to deny it. “The Minutemen have been going over it for the past several weeks. I intended to hand it over to the Brotherhood when we were done, in case you found something we didn’t.”

“Ashley found it when she visited the Castle with Desdemona. She was supposed to make a copy for the Railroad, but she quit, and kept it for herself. It isn’t the first time she’s done that. She stole Brotherhood records when she left after Ashley died. Nothing that was confidential, but enough… Enough to find something interesting.”

She runs a hand over her face, letting out a sigh through her teeth. “And when she came by the other week, she gave the copy to you.”

“Not just the copy. She came with information.”

“About?”

“A threat.” The words make even him grimace, and he wonders just how much he has changed since he had met Eleanor. Half a year ago, he wouldn’t have batted an eye at calling Danse a threat. A monster. An abomination. Now… Now, his stomach churns at the thought, and his heart twinges. “She found files on the Institute’s escaped synths. The ones that they thought might be a threat. It included DNA records.”

“I’m aware. I know the files. What’s your point?”

He can’t tell if she knows. Does she? She does not see synths as anything less than human, so she might very well not care, but the confusion written across her face says otherwise. “One of them matched the record we have on file for one of our paladins.”

The colour drains from her face. “Are you going to accuse me of something, Maxson?”

He tries to ignore her sudden decision to use his last name, but that does not make him any less uneasy. “Is there anything you wish to tell me, Ridley?” He counters her usage of his last name with hers, and she cannot hide her distaste for it, pursed lips turning into a scowl.

“I don’t know, is there?”

“That remains to be seen,” he says tightly. “I respect that you have your secrets, but I cannot allow you to keep a secret that threatens the safety of my men.”

“If you want something from me, Maxson, I’m not going to give it to you unless you ask.”

Eleanor has a way of getting under his skin like no other. She knows what he wants to hear, and she knows what he doesn’t. She knows exactly which buttons to push, and she is too stubborn to concede. She will admit defeat only when she does. Mutually assured destruction, or no destruction at all. He cannot tell if that’s any better than a war with a victor. Mutually assured destruction had left the world the way it is now.

“Paladin Danse,” he spits out, “is a perfect match for a synth they call ‘M7-97.’ Proctor Quinlan confirmed it himself.”

Her hand curls around the edge of the chair’s armrest, nails digging into the metal. A muscle twitches in her jaw. Somehow, her calm fury is even worse than her violent anger. He wants her to yell at him, wants her to punch something. At least then he would know how to react. He has dealt with raging soldiers before. He has not dealt with icy cold composure.

“An alert has been issued. I imagine by the time we return to collect the bombs you found, he will have disappeared without a trace. He is one of our best. We won’t be able to find him.”

The fact that she can’t quite meet his gaze is the only clue to her innermost thoughts. “I have never met a soldier more loyal to the Brotherhood,” is all she says, voice coming out as a whisper.

“Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that he never confided in you, and then swore you to secrecy.”

“Do you think so little of me that you believe I would _lie_ to you?” Her anguish is unmistakable. “James is my friend, but you… I wouldn’t lie to you. You have some fucking _nerve_ to accuse me of such a thing.”

“Eleanor, you _know_ what our policy on this is. We do not allow non-humans into our ranks. Were he nothing more than a squire, or perhaps a knight, we could let him leave—”

“—but now he knows too much, and you want him dead.”

“I,” he growls, “am following orders. If I do not do this, I jeopardize my position as elder.”

“And your position is more important than anything else, right?” she shoots back at him. “More important than the life of a man you once called a brother. More important than refusing to ask me to turn over an innocent man so you can kill him. We both know the Western Elders would not exile you. Not with your pretty little Maxson blood.”

“In six months, I won’t be the last Maxson, and do you think I will still have the same protection then?”

His question makes her wince, but they both know he has a point. In six months, he won’t be the last Maxson. The Brotherhood had kept him safe from infancy. The Brotherhood had raised him, and made him into a picture-perfect elder, at least until Eleanor had come along with her moral code she refuses to do anything but follow. Should he die, the Western Elders will take their child into custody, and they will not see the light of day until they are old enough to continue the Maxson line.

Arthur is only valuable so long as he is the last one of his name.

“You have a duty, Eleanor,” he says quietly, his back to her. He knows if he met her eyes, his resolve would weaken, and he would do anything she asked him to, including letting Danse go. “The Institute, and everything it stands for, needs to be destroyed. That includes Danse. Believe me when I say that this is the most difficult order I’ve ever given. I need you to hunt down Danse, and execute him, and if you can’t pull the trigger… To turn him over to the Brotherhood so we can do it ourselves.”

“Is this what you do to your men? Deserters? Traitors? _Synths_? Do you just… kill them? Is that the kind of person you are?”

“This isn’t by any choice of mine. I’m following protocol.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You only follow protocol when you choose to. You’ve never even heard of consequences. You’re too special to be punished for your transgressions.”

“In six months, that will _change._ If I do not do this now, I risk losing everything later.”

“And have you thought about the consequences you will face _now_? Have you thought about what you will risk losing _now_?” She does not say it out loud, but he knows the question on the tip of the tongue that she cannot bear to ask.

_If you do not do this, you will lose the Brotherhood, but if you do… If you kill Danse, you will keep your Brotherhood, but you will lose me._

“This is a direct order, Knight Ridley,” he says, and her sharp, angry inhale makes him want to be sick. “This isn’t easy for either of us. The Brotherhood can’t afford to make exceptions. Even when it means executing one of our own. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know where he might have gone, and it is… better, for him to die by your hands than to die at the hands of anyone else. You would be kind about it.”

“Right,” she spits, “because my hands aren’t covered in enough blood already. If I have to kill my son, then why don’t I practice by killing my best friend?”

Arthur can’t bring himself to watch her leave, the scraping of her chair as she pushes it out feels like a punch to the gut already, and the slamming of the door behind her shakes him to his core. He is barely aware of his own body as he grabs the empty coffee cup, and throws it against the adjacent wall with a fierce snarl. It shatters into a dozen shards, white ceramic against dark steel floors.

This isn’t how things were meant to be, and he hates that half a year ago, this wouldn’t have been a hard request.

But Eleanor has changed him, and he can’t decide whether it’s for better, or for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a lot of Blind Betrayal portrayals are from Sole's perspective, so I'm really taking liberties here writing it from Maxson's. A lot of his character development has been leading up to this, and I can promise you that the question of whether or not he will risk losing the Brotherhood to keep Eleanor will be a very important one in the future.
> 
> Next chapter: A confrontation, and Arthur is forced to make the decision he's been trying to avoid this entire time.


	40. Chapter Forty

There are certain lines Arthur refuses to cross, but the Brotherhood does not care. As an elder, it is his duty to give everything— _body, sweat, blood, heart, and soul_ —to its cause, and it will not bow even to the will of a Maxson. The Brotherhood is more than just him, and he has a _duty_ to do what is necessary to protect those under his charge.

But this…

This almost makes him want to abandon his family’s legacy.

Damn the Maxson name, damn the Brotherhood, and damn everything he stands for. He doesn’t care if the Brotherhood wants them to be its saviour. He is nothing but a mortal man, and he has been pushed to his breaking point. He will devote every part of him to the Brotherhood, he will give everything that he has.

_But he will not let them lay a single finger on Eleanor._

He can’t remember the last time he had flown a vertibird. Before they had left for the Commonwealth, perhaps? It’s too dangerous, they say. Too dangerous for them to let the last Maxson fly one.

He had asked, once, if it was so dangerous, why they let newly appointed knights who had never seen battle fly them. He asked them why soldiers who weren’t part of the air force were allowed to risk their lives, when he is meant to lead by example, and cannot.

They hadn’t had an answer for him.

The joystick is surprisingly familiar in his grip, even if the rubber cover is worn down in places that don’t quite match up with his fingers. He can’t count the hours he had spent learning to fly, even if he had rarely been allowed to after he had passed his final exam.

Arthur glances down at the mini-map displayed on the vertibird’s screen for a moment, confirming the location of the pulsing dot just north of the Prydwen. This is intrusive. This is _nothing_ but intrusive. He shouldn’t be doing this, but Kells had mentioned it offhandedly, and he had been pressured into doing it, regardless of his own thoughts on the matter.

_Eleanor’s Pip-Boy beeped at her, almost insistently. A frown passed over her features as she gave it a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. It was one of the few things that gave her away as a Vault Dweller. Few people in the Wasteland could afford such a commodity. She glanced back up at him with pursed lips. “That would be Danse. His vertibird’s just docked.”_

_Jaw clenched, he holds her gaze. He didn’t trust her. Not yet. “You’re tracking him?” It wasn’t meant to be a question since he already knew the answer, but the woman before him made it difficult to keep his composure stoic._

_“Is that a problem?” It didn’t sound like she was asking for his permission to keep tracking Danse. She had already done it, already made up her mind, and she wasn’t changing it now. “It was his idea,” she continued, as though that was meant to be reassuring. “My second-in-command provided the tracker, and I admit I was intending on planting it on him eventually, but it was Danse who brought the idea up. I put it in his armour, and in return, he put mine in my Pip-Boy.”_

Danse had abandoned his armour when he had fled the Glowing Sea, abandoning it not far from a Brotherhood outpost, as though he had attempted to return Brotherhood property back to its rightful owner. They couldn’t track him. Eleanor on the other hand…

Arthur had insisted that it would be impossible to hack the Pip-Boy—that she surely would have put up security measures, but when Quinlan had given it a look, there wasn’t even a single firewall in sight. What did she have to defend herself against? There are only four factions in the Commonwealth with the means to hack her Pip-Boy, and she is allied with two of them. It is unlikely that the other two would be able to glean any interesting information off of her anyhow. Not if they didn’t know where to look. She conducts all important business in person, not matter how much longer it takes.

He feels like he’s invading her privacy, and perhaps it is because he _is_ invading her privacy. He shouldn’t be tracking her. And he should not have let Quinlan activate the microphone on her Pip-Boy so that he could listen to every word. Arthur has few lines he refuses to cross, and he had crossed two of them today.

 _“Eleanor.”_ Danse doesn’t sound surprised. He’s almost resigned, like he had known that she would come for him. _“Are you here to kill me? Maxson—”_ His former friend chokes on a bitter laugh. _“He never did like to do the dirty work himself.”_

Arthur grimaces. Were they not in this situation, he’d have been concerned that Danse thought so little of him, but what can he say? Danse is right. He had sent Eleanor after him because he’d rather have her suffer for killing her friend, than suffer for the same crime himself. He should be in Eleanor’s place right now.

He should be the one putting a bullet between Danse’s eyes.

Eleanor doesn’t respond immediately. _“You should have told me, James,”_ she whispers, so quiet the microphone of her Pip-Boy almost doesn’t catch it. _“I thought you trusted me.”_

 _“If I had known, Eleanor, I would have.”_ He hates how broken Danse sounds. It makes him seem human, but he isn’t. He isn’t human. He had been grown in a lab in one of the Institute’s experiments. _“I think a part of me suspected, but I… I didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t until Quinlan got that list decoded, and Maxson sent out the alert. I never… I never expected to hear—”_ His voice cracks, breaking. _“I didn’t know.”_

_“You can’t blame yourself for that.”_

_“Can’t I? I followed the Brotherhood. I was a part of them. I knew the rules, and I ignored my suspicions in order to stay.”_ A long moment of silence, which Danse breaks after a choked sigh. _“Does Maxson even want me alive?”_

 _“He ordered me to kill you,”_ Eleanor replies. _“He said it would be… kinder for me to do it. The Brotherhood has been ordered to kill you on sight. They would take a pleasure in it that I would not.”_

_“And? Are you going to?”_

_“Are you kidding? Do you truly think so little of me? Arthur can order me around as much as he fucking wants, but he’s not in charge of me.”_

_“He means more to you now.”_ A pause, and there’s a faint sound of movement. _“More to the two of you now.”_

_“I will not change who I am for the sake of love, and he is a fool for thinking that I would. I’m not going to kill you, James. I can’t. Not even if I wanted to. Too many people have died already. I do my best to remember their names, but I am starting to forget just how many bodies I’ve burned. Loyal soldiers, settlers, friends… husbands. I can’t add your name to that list.”_

_“I know. But that doesn’t change what needs to happen. I know… I know that this must be difficult for you.”_

_“That’s a bit of a fucking understatement.”_

_“I wish… I wish Maxson had sent someone else.”_

Eleanor’s breath hitches in her throat. _“You’re not the only one who wishes that,”_ she says, and Arthur has to agree. He wishes he hadn’t sent her. He wishes it had been him in her stead. He is angry for the Brotherhood’s leaders refusing to let him fly a vertibird, insisting that if his men will risk their lives, so will he, but he hides now behind Eleanor, and sends her out to do what he can’t bring himself to do.

So much for leading by example.

_“You need to kill me, Eleanor. I can’t be trusted. Synths can’t be trusted. Machines need to be controlled, and look at me. This whole time, I was the one giving you orders.”_

_“You’re being ridiculous.”_

_“If you disobey your orders, you’re not only betraying Maxson, you’re betraying the Brotherhood of Steel, and everything it stands for!”_

_“Contrary to the title I wear, I am not Brotherhood. I am a Minuteman before I am a knight, and I will not be judged as anything but what I am.”_

_“And Maxson?”_

Silence. _“If he loves me, and he says that he does, he will forgive me. In time. And if he doesn’t… Then I will learn not to love him, because I don’t think I can love a man who would ask me to sacrifice everything I’ve ever stood for in order to fulfil the Brotherhood’s demands.”_

_“Machines like me… We don’t deserve to live. Technology that’s run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees, and humanity to the brink of extinction.”_

_“You talk about the War like you lived it, but need I remind you that of the two of us, I’m the only one who knows what they’re fucking talking about. Technology didn’t do that. That was all arrogant, selfish people in power who couldn’t have given less of a damn about doing what was right. All they cared about was doing what would keep them in power. The world ended not because of the bombs, but because people like… people like Arthur were in power. He will do what is right only when it is for himself, never for the Brotherhood. If the Brotherhood asked him to kill half of humanity, and gave no reason, he would do it without hesitation.”_

Arthur keeps his gaze focused on the ground beneath him, teeth gritted. He hates that she’s right about the person he is when the Brotherhood’s concerned. Deep down, he knows who he is, and what he stands for, but for his entire life, he had been taught to follow the Brotherhood’s orders blindly, and without question.

He almost doesn’t know if he’s capable of doing anything else.

 _“I must,”_ continues Danse, _“face the consequences of my actions. If Maxson ordered you to execute me, then…”_ Something heavy clatters as it hits the floor—steel hitting concrete, like Danse has just dropped his weapon. _“I’m not going to stand in your way.”_

Another clatter as someone, presumably Eleanor, tosses another gun aside. _“I’m not going to kill you. Not even if you held a gun to my head.”_

_“He will kill you for this.”_

_“He cares more about our child than he does about me. I dare him to try.”_

Does she truly think that, or is she lashing out in anger like a wounded animal at its attackers?

_“You would risk your life just to keep me alive? Why would you do that for me?”_

_“Because Arthur’s a massive idiot sometimes, and this is one of those times. He’s wrong. You don’t deserve to die. You are a better man than any human I’ve ever met, James. If even half of humanity could have been like you, then perhaps we wouldn’t be standing in the rubble of what’s left of civilisation. I’ve already lost everything. My home, my family… I can’t lose you too.”_

The radio is quiet for so long that Arthur almost fears that his connection has been severed, but then: _“Thank you.”_

_“I’ll get you out of the Commonwealth. Away from the Brotherhood. I have a few friends in the Railroad yet, and I’m certain Ashley knows of a few good places to hide from the Brotherhood. She would protect you, and kill anyone who tries to lay a finger on you. I’ll find a body. Burn it so it’s unrecognisable, and give it a funeral. Give the Brotherhood your holotags. Arthur will never know, and you’ll be safe, far away from here.”_

_“It’s… unfortunate that we have to say goodbye.”_

Arthur lands the vertibird just outside an abandoned looking bunker. The turrets out front have been shot out with a 10mm pistol, and he can see a fallen Protectron lying just inside the doorway. No Danse, and no Eleanor, but there is an elevator with a blinking, lit button.

He could go down. He could interrupt their conversation, but he can’t bring himself to leave the vertibird’s cockpit. His legs feel like they’re made of lead, refusing to take a single step towards the elevator door. Once he sees Danse, he knows…

He knows he will have to fulfil his duty.

 _“Don’t think of it as goodbye,”_ says Eleanor. _“Think of it as ‘until next time.’ You haven’t see the last of me yet, James. My child has to meet the man who led me to their father, after all. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I always show up to fandoms several months late, with coffee, and an absolutely unnecessary longfic? This is like... the fifth time I've done this. I think it's mostly because I'm not the kind of person who jumps aboard the hype train, but ah, well. And if anyone's still reading this, thanks for sticking around. I've been writing for eight years come August, and I still have no idea what I'm doing.


	41. Chapter Forty One

There’s a weight pressing down on Arthur’s chest as he kills the vertibird’s engine, radio going silent. He can’t do this. He _can’t._ But he has to. He forces himself to move forward, and the air feels like it is as thick as molasses, and just as hard to walk through.

An elevator button dings, and he can hear the soft pitter-patter of footsteps before anyone steps into view.

And peridot eyes burn into his soul with pure, white-hot anger as they meet his eyes.

Danse hangs several steps back behind Eleanor, seeming incredibly small outside of his bulky power armour. Arthur hates just how human he looks; he is almost green, as though ready to be sick, and brown eyes are wet with unshed tears, his heartbreak written across his visage.

Arthur wears his battlecoat, but he’s still cold, and he knows it isn’t from the sharp winds of January. Snow crunches underfoot as he takes several careful steps towards the General. “Eleanor.”

Her voice is just as tight as his own when she speaks. “Arthur.”

“You have a problem,” he says, “with following orders, but I knew that already.”

“So you followed me?” She doesn’t sound angry. Just… sad. “Tracked me down?”

“I didn’t have to. The chip. In your Pip-Boy. Kells remembered that you had it, and Quinlan…” He trails off, letting out a heavy sigh in an attempt to control his conflicting emotions. The part of him that’s loyal to the Brotherhood hates her for what she’s done. The other part… The part of him that has begun to realise that the Brotherhood needs to change if it is to survive, the part of him that refuses to be brainwashed by his childhood wants to let her help Danse flee. “You betrayed the Brotherhood, Eleanor. You broke our alliance.”

“She didn’t break it,” Danse is quick to say, even before she can open her mouth to defend herself. “I did. It’s my fault. Don’t punish the Minutemen for what I did.”

Arthur can barely look at him. He knows that if he does, he won’t be able to say that Danse in a machine. He knows that if he looks at him, he will see nothing but his brother-in-arms. He will see nothing but the paladin who always treated him with respect, but had always tried his best to be his friend. “I’ll deal with _you_ in a moment.”

“No,” Eleanor says quietly. “He’s right. I did break it. I swore to follow the rules of the Brotherhood so long as I was on your territory, and dealing with matters that concerned you. But you swore to uphold the ideals of the Minutemen, and _you_ betrayed _me_ by asking me to break those ideals in order to appease you. I will let that slide, but only if you let him walk out of here.”

“Let him _walk_?” he hisses. “It isn’t a man, Eleanor. It’s a machine. An automaton created by the Institute.”

“With the way you’re acting, you sound like more of a machine than he does!” she shoots. “Can you even _hear_ yourself? You sound just as obsessed as Shaun.”

That strikes a chord somewhere deep within him. “How dare you,” he snarls. “The Institute is trying to play God. I am trying to preserve everything they threaten to destroy.”

“This… This is not how you do that. Synths pose _no_ threat if the Institute is dead, and come the end of this year, it will be. They will not terrorise the Commonwealth for a moment longer. Not to mention that Danse is nothing but loyal to you, and the Brotherhood. He serves you better than I ever can, or will.”

“After all I’ve done for the Brotherhood,” Danse says quietly, finding his voice. “All the blood I’ve spilled in your name— _our_ name, how can you say that about me?”

Icy blue eyes meet warm brown. Danse reminds him too much of a better version of himself. He is kinder than Arthur will ever be. Stronger, and smarter too. If he were not the Elder, he knows without a doubt that Danse would have been, had he been human. “You embody everything we stand against. You are precisely why we need to put an end to the Institute. Look around you, Danse. Look at the scorched earth, and the bones that litter the wasteland. Can you count the number of dead? Can you say, with confidence, how many died because man was foolish enough to create something that would destroy us all? They did not think about the consequences their actions would have.”

“And neither,” Eleanor interrupts, “did you.”

“You liken me to them so easily,” Arthur says, hiding the pain in his voice. “Everything I’ve ever done… Everything I will ever do, it was for the good of the people.”

“That’s what Shaun said too.” Eleanor’s calm is almost unnerving, like she has passed the point of rage, and reached exhaustion where she cannot even begin to imagine what is going on in his head right now. “And that’s what they also said when they dropped the bombs.”

“ _No_ ,” he growls. “Danse is a single bomb in an arsenal of _thousands_ preparing to lay waste to what’s left of mankind. Place it where you want the damage done, and when you least expect it, it delivers a lethal blow without warning, and without mercy. How many nights have you slept with it watching your back? How many opportunities have you given it to kill you? One kill, and the Institute would have had the Brotherhood on its knees.”

Conflict passes over her face as she realises the meaning behind his words. If she died, then that would be it. He can’t live without her, and the Brotherhood cannot survive without him. But it doesn’t change a thing. “And how many has he taken? How many times has he saved me?”

He counters her question with one of his own. “How can you trust the word of a machine that thinks it’s alive?”

“Because I thought I was human, Arthur.” Something within Danse snaps, his patience finally wearing thin. His name sounds too familiar on his tongue, and he is suddenly reminded of the amount of times Danse had caught him grieving over Sarah, and had sat with him in silence without judgement. How many nights had he let a younger Arthur sob into his shoulder, staining his shirt with his tears? How many times had he caught him lost in his memories of her, and had quickly changed the subject so no one else would catch on?

Danse respects him as his elder, but deep down, they both know that they are brothers more than they are anything else.

“Everything you saw,” he continues without pause, “that was real. Everything I said. Everything I did. Everything I believed.” His eyes meet Arthur’s, holding his gaze. “I fought for you. I bled for you. I would have died for you. From the moment I was taken in by the Brotherhood, I’ve done absolutely nothing to betray your trust, and I never will. So if you still want me dead, then shoot me yourself, because if I am to die, I want you to live, knowing that you did it.”

He has never seen Danse so angry. The Paladin always used to be the happy one, the gentle one. The squires used to flock to him, even if he hadn’t known what to do around them. He would regale them with tales that weren’t perhaps appropriate for such young children, but they had been so enraptured by him that Arthur couldn’t ever bring himself to stop him.

“I wish this could have ended in some other way,” Arthur murmurs, “but it’s too late for that now. My orders, General Ridley, still stand. Either you execute Danse, or I will.”

She hesitates, and Danse reaches over to squeeze her hand. “Thank you for trying, Eleanor. You are better than even the best of us, and whatever you decide, know that I’m going to my grave with no anger… And no regrets.”

She pulls her hand out of his grasp, turning back to face Arthur. She doesn’t try to hide her anger. Not this time. “You are being absolutely _fucking_ ridiculous,” she snarls. “After everything I’ve done, after everything I’ve _sacrificed_ , you would still ask this of me? I will _never_ see my son again because I chose to stand by your side, and yet you ask me to kill my closest friend so you can keep your position as elder? No. No, absolutely not. I’ve seen who you are. I’ve seen who you could be. I’ve see the man behind everything the Brotherhood has drilled into your mind, and I _know_ that a part of you believes that this is wrong. Were you the man you were when I met you, I could ignore this stupidity, but you are not. You spared Valentine. You treat both him and Hancock as human beings deserving of life.”

“Because they are _Minutemen_ ,” he hisses. “They are your equals, and I will respect that, even if I do not understand it.”

“That’s not the only reason, and we both know it. You’ve changed. There’s a part of you now that sees the flaws in the Brotherhood, and you can’t _stand_ flaws. You have a need to fix everything, and the Brotherhood will never survive if it alienates itself from a portion of the population. You will be forgotten. Just like everyone from my time. All of your victories will be ultimately irrelevant, and you will be _nothing_. You’ve provided me with an ultimatum, Arthur. Kill Danse, and continue having the Brotherhood’s support in this war, or refuse to kill Danse, and risk the safety of my people. So I return your ultimatum with one of my own.”

He pushes his shoulders back. “I’m listening.”

“You said that if the Institute killed me, the Brotherhood would fall. I’m your weakness, whether you like it or not.” A hand settles over her stomach. “ _We_ are your weakness. And if Danse dies… then you’ll lose me as well. If his life means that little to you, then my life cannot mean much more, and I will not stay with someone who treats those he cares about as disposable.”

He wants to believe that she’s bluffing. He wants to say that she would never, but they both know that she would. He has crossed more than just the lines he had set for himself. He has crossed hers too.

“But if you let him go…” she continues. “If you prove to me that your heart is not made of steel, that your soul is not iron—if you can prove to me that you are just as human as Danse is… I will stay.”

Finally, the choice he has been dreading to make for months.

Eleanor, or the Brotherhood.

Eleanor _and their child_ , or the Brotherhood.

Slowly, Arthur reaches into his pocket, and pulls out Sarah’s knife, and the laser pistol he’d shoved into his pocket before chasing after Eleanor. She watches, warily, ready for him to pull either on Danse, but instead, he turns them around, passing them handles-first over to Eleanor without a word.

Silently, she takes them, weighing them experimentally before shoving them into her own pockets. She doesn’t say thank you, but why should she thank him for behaving like a human being before behaving like the Brotherhood’s puppet?

Because that’s all he is, isn’t he? That’s what they had turned him into? A blind puppet ready to follow orders without question? He calls himself stubborn, but he isn’t. Not really. Eleanor is stubborn. She is unmovable, and unbending. Nothing can change her. Not time, not loss, not people. She is who she is, and she refuses to change for anyone, or anything. But he… he needs to change. He refuses to follow without question. He won’t be as insubordinate as she is, but he needs to doubt the orders he is being given from time to time.

And somehow, he knows that she will help him.

“Checkmate,” she whispers.

“I can’t…” He closes his eyes. “I can’t allow him back into the Brotherhood. My men have been ordered to shoot on sight.”

“But you can’t kill Minutemen. You can’t even harm them. If Hancock and Valentine were anyone else, they’d already be dead, but since they are Minutemen…” He doesn’t know where she is going with this. “James,” Eleanor says, looking to Danse. “I hereby conscript you into the Commonwealth Minutemen. You will hereby be known as Captain Danse. Report to the Castle at your earliest convenience.”

Danse inclines his head. “Eleanor—”

“No. I won’t hear it. I will not risk your safety. If Minutemen are exempt from the rule, then you are too, unless you wish to take back what you said, _Elder Maxson?_ ”

Arthur swallows. “No. So long as he is under your protection, Danse will not be harmed by the Brotherhood, and should anyone try to, there will be repercussions, but as far as I’m concerned…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eleanor says before he can continue. “It doesn’t matter as far as you are concerned, because he’s no longer your concern. He’s mine. And you will treat him with the same respect with which you would treat any human captain serving under me.”

“I cannot promise your safety,” he says to Danse, “should you step into Brotherhood territory. There will be many that are angry, but as of this moment, you are stripped of your ranks, and discharged.” He pauses, and adds on as an afterthought: “Honourably. I look forward to working together, _Captain_ Danse.”

Danse is still fighting back tears. “Thank you for believing in me, Arthur.”

“Do not mistake my mercy for acceptance,” he says. “It will take some time yet for me to… come to terms with this, but I will uphold the agreement I made with the General months ago. So remember that, and don’t you forget it. The only reason you’re still alive… is because of her.” He turns to leave, hands clasped behind his back, but hesitates. He glances back at Eleanor over his shoulder. “I’m returning to the Prydwen. When you are ready, I would… like to talk. Take your time.”

Eleanor ducks her head. “I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so all he does is nod. “I’ll be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Hahaha I have no idea what self-restraint is--this was almost part of the last chapter, making one massive, 10 page long chapter that was way too long to realistically be one chapter.~~
> 
> I won't even lie. This chapter was 100% inspired by Hamilton and Eliza's relationship as portrayed in _Hamilton_. I had First Burn (which is honestly such an amazing song, though I do understand why Lin-Manuel Miranda scrapped it for the final version of Burn) playing on repeat while I wrote this. "And when the time comes / explain to the children / the pain and embarrassment you put their mother through / when will you learn that they are your legacy / we are your legacy." just fit so well, and I couldn't help myself, I'm sorry.
> 
> Also if anyone's interested in that art giveaway I was talking about, you can find all the rules and regulations over at artpixelyna.com. It officially ends at 11:59 EST, on May 27th, 2018, and you can enter as many times as you want to so go give it a look!


	42. Chapter Forty Two

He had thought that he would hate himself for choosing Eleanor over the Brotherhood. A better leader would have put his people first. A better leader would have made a sacrifice for the greater good. But he is a better man than he is a leader. He values her too much, and she’s right about her being his weakness. He is not infallible. He is not untouchable. Not anymore. She is his weakness, and losing her would break him.

But he has to remember that she is her own person, with her own set of beliefs, and she does not belong to him.

An alert has been issued to the Brotherhood, despite the protests of his higher ranking officers. Danse is not to be touched. He is under the protection of the Minutemen, and even if they do not have to extend the Brotherhood’s protection unto him, they must respect the decisions the General had made. He is not to be spoken to of Brotherhood matters—not to be spoken to at all, if possible—and he will not be allowed onto Brotherhood territory without a valid reason, and a Brotherhood escort. He will hear no complaints. He has given an order, and anyone who dares to break it will face appropriate punishment. That does not mean people refrain from grumbling when they think he can’t hear them, but it will spare him the complaints that would otherwise be flooding his terminal.

Ingram is the only one in his inner circle who doesn’t vocalise her disapproval, but he can’t tell if it is because she is following his orders to not complain, or if she agrees that he had made the right decision.

He hopes it’s the latter, but he considers Hannah a friend, and even if she doesn’t agree, he knows that she will forgive him in time.

It’s almost dawn by the time Eleanor returns to the Prydwen, slipping into his quarters, and taking care to shut the door behind her. She doesn’t say a word, and instead sets about making a single cup of tea using the hot pad she had set up in the corner. Eleanor waits for the kettle to shrill before she pours the water over a single bag of black tea, and sets it down on the table before taking a seat across from him.

He casts it a glance out of the corner of his eye. “You shouldn’t be drinking caffeine,” he mutters.

“I’m not going to,” she says after a moment’s pause. “I needed… I needed to see if I was angry at you, and I couldn’t just… stand there.”

“And are you?”

“I haven’t decided.” Eleanor toys with the chain of her holotags, curling it around her finger. The flat, metal rectangles clatter as she lets them drop, bouncing as they hit her chest. “I should be. You asked me to do something I never would have been able to do. You asked me to put aside everything I’ve ever stood for, just so you could keep your title. You made me feel like I meant less to you than the Brotherhood. But…” She meets his gaze, tentative and wary, as though she fears he will change his mind now that they are alone. “You let him live, and more than that, you promised that he would come to no harm. What I need to know now is if you meant it.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I did.”

Slowly, she reaches her hands into the pockets of her coat, and pulls out his pistol, and knife. She sets them down next to the cooling cup of tea neither of them intend on drinking. “These are yours.”

Arthur doesn’t know if he should thank her for returning what is rightfully his anyway. He keeps silent, reaching to pull them over to his side of the table. “So,” he croaks out, “where does this leave us?”

“You’re an idiot, and I hate you sometimes,” she starts, and he dreads to hear the rest of her sentence, “but I still love you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I’ve been holding our child over your head, threatening to leave if you made a mistake. That’s not right. Not fair. It sounds like something my mother would do. You promised me that you wouldn’t leave, and I didn’t make the same promise. I should have.

“I recognise that the source of all my anger towards you is because you don’t follow the ideals of the Minutemen as closely as I want you to, but I’ve been doing the same with the Brotherhood. There are expectations of me, just as there are for you, and I haven’t been meeting them. But you… you don’t get angry about it. You get… annoyed, and push me a little too far sometimes, but you don’t threaten me. You don’t tell me that you could revoke all of the Minutemen’s protection at the drop of a hat. You don’t say you’ll leave my men to fend for themselves. You made a mistake in asking me to kill James, but you aren’t the only one at fault here. As long as you won’t kill Danse behind my back—”

“I’m a man of my word. When I said I wouldn’t harm him, I meant it. Do you think I would lie to you?”

“No,” she says. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

 He lets out a breath, fingers itching for a cigar. He wants something to soothe his nerves, perhaps numb them. He hasn’t wanted one in quite some time, he notes. He had kicked the habit to aid Eleanor in her own attempt to quit cold-turkey. Her decision to quit couldn’t have come any sooner, if her suspicions as to when their child was conceived are true. “Can you answer a different question for me?”

“Depends. What is it?”

“You said that I cared more about our child, more about the legacy I will leave behind, than I do about you. Did you mean it?” He doesn’t want to hear her answer. He would rather be blind than know the truth. Ignorance is bliss, they say. He had never understood. He wants to know everything, at all times. He’s too controlling to not want to, but this… He doesn’t want to know.

But he had asked, and he wants an answer.

Eleanor doesn’t question why he had heard, putting the pieces together. “I’d appreciated if you didn’t hack my Pip-Boy.”

“I was against the idea. Quinlan insisted. Your privacy is your own.” He’s going to have to replace his gloves he realises, looking down at his hands. He has nervously been picking at loose threads, and the fingerless gloves now end at the base of his fingers, rather than at his second knuckle.

She glances away, gaze unfocused and faraway. “It feels like that sometimes. Like I’m not enough. You are so concerned by what you will leave behind. You are too busy looking behind you, or looking into the future that it seems like life just passes you by. What you’re doing is important, Arthur, but a hundred years from now, two hundred… The world moves on, and you’re afraid of being forgotten. I don’t even know why I had to go to the Glowing Sea to get those bombs. You’re building something in the airport, but no one will let me go near it. You’ve got plans, upon plans, upon plans, and you don’t let me know any of them. I don’t want our child growing up like that. You aren’t the only one who has had to live up to their family’s legacy. My mother made me feel _worthless_ for not taking after her, and I refuse to let myself become her.”

“You are not your mother, Eleanor.”

“I know that. But I fear that, you know? She was absolutely fucking terrible. I think the only reason my father stayed with her was because he was scared of her. She refused to let things go. She needed to control everything, and when things didn’t go her way, she became… violent. I do everything I can to not be like her, but I catch myself sometimes. I can’t unlearn what she taught me. Polite in public, and charming as hell, but then in private… Violent, bitter, vulgar… It’s the only thing that scares me. Becoming her. And bugs. I hate Commonwealth bugs. They’re unnecessarily large, and show up out of fucking nowhere.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, he snorts with amusement.

“I don’t want us to become my parents, Arthur. I’m not going to force you to do anything, but if you try to make our child the spitting image of you, I will leave, and I will not look back. No matter how much it hurts.”

“I have to admit, the idea of leaving the Brotherhood behind, and disappearing into the wilderness is becoming more and appealing by the day,” he replies. “But no. I won’t let that happen. I promise. The thing you retrieved the weapons for, the thing that we’re building… It’s called Liberty Prime. It’s a robot. Forty feet tall, armed to the teeth… The government originally built it with the intention to deploy it to free Anchorage from the Chinese. It never was. The Brotherhood recovered it ten years ago, and used it in… an altercation with an enemy force. Unfortunately, it was destroyed. It was Ingram’s idea to repair it, and—”

“—and utilise it against the Institute,” she finishes. “Why bother hiding that from me? I want to see the Institute destroyed just as much as you do.”

“Because weapons like the ones Prime uses are not… accurate. They cover a large area. Once we set Prime on the Institute, he won’t stop until there is nothing remaining but rubble. He takes no prisoners. Accepts no surrender.”

She almost folds in on herself. “There are children in the Institute,” she breathes out.

“I know,” he says. “I had no qualms about it before I met you. Prime was going to get the job done. It was what we needed. We could have finished him with Doctor Li’s assistance, but she helped program him when the Brotherhood last used him. I was hoping she would be able to reprogram his AI to spare innocents, but it’s not coming as fast as I would like it to. I do not even know if it will work. For now, it’s our only hope… and our last resort. I shouldn’t have kept that from you. I’m sorry.”

Eleanor crosses her arms over her chest, watching him with a wary eye. “I’m still mad at you,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong. You crossed a line. If Danse were dead, if his safety was compromised in _any_ way, I would not have come back here. That would have been the last you saw of me. The Commonwealth has taken enough from me. I will not let it take anything else. I don’t have much else left to lose. Do you understand me?”

“I do.” His shoulders sag with exhaustion. “So where does this leave us?”

“That depends on what you intend on telling the Brotherhood.”

A moment’s pause, and then: “The truth. Danse is under your protection, and the Brotherhood is not allowed to touch him.”

Eleanor is still tense, like a coiled spring, but she relaxes ever-so-slightly at his words. She is no longer that caged, wounded animal, snapping through the metal bars at her captors. That does not mean she is not still furious. She has every right to be angry.

Arthur can’t remember the last time he’d actually admitted fault for anything. He’s far too used to being told that he’s right, even when he’s wrong. A Maxson, no matter what, is always right. He knows now though that he is more than just a Maxson. By forcing him to choose, Eleanor had made him realise that he couldn’t care less if he was a Maxson. He doesn’t mean anything without her.

Not anymore.

He would choose her over any title, any amount of caps, any _legacy_ that he could ever be offered. His legacy is irrelevant if she’s not a part of it. She is enough. She is more than enough.

And he needs to ensure that she knows that.

“I’ll always love you,” he says, voice broken. “I hope you know that. There is nothing in this world that means more to me than you. And… And seeing as I’m now lacking a paladin, and you deserve a greater deal of autonomy in the Brotherhood… I would like to ask you to take up Danse’s mantle, and all the benefits that come with it.” He wants to give her a separate position entirely, one that would make her his equal, but he has to observe policy. He can’t promote her to such a rank, without her working her way up first.

She deserves this. She has proven her loyalty, proven her will. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

“Benefits?”

“A room,” he says. “His room. Across the hall from mine.”

“It is…” She trails off, choosing her next words carefully. “Impractical. For me to constantly be flying back to the Castle to sleep, and I’m starting to not fit on Danse’s couch.” Another long silence, and he fears that she will refuse his offer. “It would be my honour, Elder.”

“Then congratulations, Paladin Ridley. And the honour is mine. To serve alongside a woman such as yourself.”

They both know what his words really mean. He isn’t good at apologies, but this is as close he can come to apologising for what he had done, and truly meaning it.

 _It isn’t much,_ he repeats to himself, _but it’s a damn good start._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The uhhh... solution, I suppose I could call it, to dealing with the Institute's going to to be a strange mix of the canonical Brotherhood ending, the Minutemen ending, and my own content, so I apologise for the fact that a large portion of this chapter is just setting that up, but the next chapter isn't much better. We're reaching the plotty part of this fic, but if you guys can hold out until chapter forty six, I promise it'll be worth it ;)


	43. Chapter Forty Three

“You look like you have a lot on your mind.”

Eleanor turns away from the window of the observation deck, her features illuminated by the soft light of the setting sun. Her golden hair almost looks like it’s fire, glowing orange from within. She looks like she had just stepped out of a painting, too perfect to be anything but a figment of his imagination, but there is a quiet sadness behind her eyes that she cannot hide. The gentle press of her lips is nothing but indicative of something else, something _more_. She can’t lie to him. Not because he knows her too well, but mostly because she’s a terrible liar. She can keep her mouth shut well enough, and be vague as she wants to be, but it’s easy enough to tell when there’s something wrong.

“You should get a door installed,” she murmurs, avoiding the subject. “Seems ridiculous that the Brotherhood values privacy so much, and doesn’t install doors on its individual decks. I suppose it could be a money saving thing but—” She cuts herself off, wringing her hands. “I suppose the Brotherhood doesn’t have to worry about caps, do they? Private military, and all that. You charge for protection, and your men funnel a third of their earnings back into the Brotherhood for supplies, and accommodation. It’s very efficient. The Minutemen rely mostly on donations, and rewards for the bounties we collect when we’re short. Preston’s saying we should start charging taxes, but I don’t...” She trails off, not completing her sentence as she looks back out the window at the Commonwealth below. “It doesn’t seem fair to ask that of them. It made sense pre-War, but people here are having a hard enough time scrounging for caps as it is. We should help them in any way we can.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, giving her an opportunity to vent the thoughts at the forefront of her mind before pressing her into talking about what’s _actually_ bothering her.

Already, she’s scrambling for words, trying to stall for just one moment longer. “You know what I mean? Things are hard enough, and what are we supposed to do when they can’t make taxes? Are we supposed to kick them out of their houses? Exile them? We’d just be leaving them to die. I’d be just as bad as the fucking government officials from my time—not giving a damn about the people under me as long as I was able to get money off of the ones that stayed. And... And...”

He raises a brow. “And...?” he prompts.

She mutters a few curses under her breath. “Fuck if I know,” she says, loud enough for him to hear.

“You sure? You seemed... quite passionate about taxes.” He can’t keep the teasing smile off of his lips. “Perhaps they could offer a portion of their crop if they have a surplus, rather than taking their coin. Your infrastructure supports internal trade as it is.”

Eleanor just glares at him, but there’s no animosity in the action. She’s almost amused as though she can’t believe he’s indulging her. “Perhaps,” she says, biting back a quiet laugh, but she falls silent again. She wrings her hands. “I’m afraid,” she says after a moment’s pause.

“Of?”

“How much longer we have until we have to face the Institute,” she answers. “I don’t imagine we have long. Your Liberty Prime isn’t... very well hidden. It was fine until they started attaching limbs to it, and filling it with bombs, but the Institute’s going to know that we’re preparing for a second attack.”

“We’ve beaten them before,” he says. “I have faith we can do it again.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” she mutters, continuing to wring her hands. Her face is painted with worry, unable to mask her concern. “The synths are programmed with an intelligent form of artificial intelligence that learns as it’s exposed to more and more things. Shaun compared to evolution, but at a speed humans will never be able to achieve. They’re designed to outlive us, out-adapt us. Even if they can’t beat us in combat, early generation synths are immune to radiation, to disease, to ageing. Gen 3’s aren’t immune, but they’re certainly more resistant than we are, and the Institute’s trying to work out if they can bear children... Not to mention that they’re smarter than we are. They don’t make the same mistakes, and as we’ve both learned, they can infiltrate society almost seamlessly. Even if Danse is—”

He grimaces at the sound of his name, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“—loyal to the Brotherhood,” she continues without pause, “there’s a reason he is—was, rather—one of your best paladins. Even if it was subconscious, the Institute had programmed him to learn from his mistakes faster than any human could.”

“I doubt they can prepare for Liberty Prime.”

“I doubt _we_ can prepare for Liberty Prime,” she returns. “You promised me that it wouldn’t be the Brotherhood’s first choice. Not if it can be avoided.”

“It might be our Plan B, but without a Plan A...” he starts, hesitant.

“Trust me. I’m working on it,” she says, hands resting over the swell of her stomach. At fourteen weeks, it’s getting pretty hard to hide her pregnancy, not that —thanks to their mistake of not closing the door—everyone doesn’t already know. He wonders if it’s even possible to get maternity wear. He’ll have to talk to Teagan. “After I severed ties with the Railroad, Piper suggested that I should keep a few spies on hand to ensure that the Railroad didn’t retaliate. We started out with a few, but now... There’s a reason Minutemen are available at a minute’s notice, and it isn’t just because we have settlements across the Commonwealth.”

“While I understand that you bear no ill will towards the Brotherhood, I admit that the thought is rather... concerning.”

“Like you don’t have spies of your own.”

Arthur coughs. “That’s beside the point.”

She snorts with amusement, and drops the matter. “Regardless. I’ve ordered my men to find another way into the Institute. We won’t be able to destroy their entire facility from aboveground. Prime will be able to breach the front door, but not much else. Still, they can’t survive underground without some sort of connection to the surface, and if there is one... We’ll find it.”

“And yet, you are still concerned.”

She purses her lips. “That’s an understatement. The Railroad is... poking around in places it shouldn’t be. I’ve received reports from nearly every settlement saying that Railroad recruitment tapes are showing up in the middle of the night, and there are a few new faces in the crowd. The only settlement that hasn’t reported such a thing is Spectacle Island.”

“That seems odd.”

“It would if people lived there. Since it’s all but abandoned, save for a small skeleton crew, I’m not surprised. It’s rather difficult to get out there, though my people _are_ working on a bridge. I had a boat for a while, but fuel was difficult to acquire in large enough quantities. It’s mainly for Minutemen who don’t want to be a part of the fight, as well as my private residence when I need to get away from my duties.” She looks down at her hands, smiling softly. “I haven’t been there in ages, but it always was one of my favourite places to run away to.”

“One of?”

“The Kingsport Lighthouse is mine, even if the house next to it isn’t. The views from the top floor are... breathtaking, if you’re fine with heights.”

“I didn’t realise you didn’t live at the Castle full time.”

“Preston’s done a lot to my quarters there, tried to make it, well, _habitable_ , but it’s... a lot. I can’t be anyone but the General there. Even in the middle of the night, people are knocking on my door, asking for help with a problem a dozen other people could help them with. I don’t mind, most times, but sometimes I just... I just...”

“Need to be Eleanor, not the General,” he finishes. He knows the feeling all too well. He feels out of place at the Castle, mostly because he doesn’t know what to do when the people around him are working, and he isn’t, but it allows him to relax, even for just a moment. He’s used to being responsible for everyone’s safety, and well-being at all times. Sometimes, it feels like he can’t breathe under the weight of his responsibilities. Eleanor doesn’t treat him like her superior, and it’s part of why he respects her.

And it reinforces the fact that he had made a mistake by treating her as anything but his equal.

She pushes her hair back over one shoulder, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “And it’s become harder since everyone left. Cait’s taken up residence with Hancock, Valentine’s got his place in Diamond City, Mac took Curie and Codsworth to check out how the other settlements were doing, and offer Curie’s medical help to anyone who needed it. Preston’s a good guy, but he cares more for the Minutemen than he does for me. Danse and Piper are about the only two I can talk to right now, but Piper’s too busy with this new girl that just moved to Diamond City, and Danse is... Well... He’s still torn up over the fact that I saved his life. He doesn’t know whether or not he should be grateful. This Railroad thing, though... Desdemona’s testing my patience. I think it’s intentional.”

“She knows that our combined strength rivals anything she has,” he says. “She’s worried.”

“She has every right to be worried, but she doesn’t have a right to send _her_ men to _my_ settlements to further her own cause. She’s not foolish enough to try to start a war. Not outright. But she knows that if the Railroad wishes to continue operating, she’ll have to destroy the Brotherhood, and depose of me. I won’t let her come anywhere near the Minutemen.”

“You think she’s trying to get you to attack first?”

“Seems like it.” She looks back at him. “I wanted to hear what you thought. You are a better tactician than I am. Although, in all fairness, you’ve been leading your men a lot longer than I’ve been leading mine.”

He considers what she’s asking of him for a moment, Eleanor watching him the entire time. “Do you want to retaliate?”

“No,” she says. “Not really. My problem with the Railroad is where Desdemona is taking it. It could do better under different leadership. The destruction of the Railroad would require us to kill people who had nothing to do with the Railroad’s major decisions. If you think you segregate information, you should see how Desdemona runs things. I think she’s the only one who knows what’s ever going on, at any given point. It keeps information breaches from happening, but it also means we’ll be punishing innocents for the sins of their leaders.”

“Sometimes in war, the death of innocents is unavoidable.”

“That may be so, but that precise mentality is what Shaun adheres to.”

“Shaun is... an extremist.”

“But he didn’t start out that way,” she whispers. “That happened slowly. People aren’t born evil. I don’t want to risk becoming like him. And there are... There are people in the Railroad I still consider friends, even if we’ve become estranged. If we march on the Railroad, I can’t promise that they’ll live. Can you?”

He lets out a breath through his teeth. “No,” he says. “I am... concerned that if we do not address this matter, however, that Desdemona might grow bolder. There are several high ranking Minutemen that are not necessarily loyal to you.”

“You’re talking about Ronnie, aren’t you?” She doesn’t wait for him to respond, already knowing the answer to her question. “So what are you saying we should do?”

He doesn’t want to tell her to risk her friends’ lives just so she can rid of the threat that Desdemona poses to the Minutemen’s safety. But he knows better than to tell her to ignore Desdemona’s attempts. He knows that, up until recently, she had limited herself to recruiting ordinary wastelanders who owed their allegiance to no faction. If she starts convincing their men to join her side, he can’t even begin to imagine the amount of security problems it will cause. He doesn’t want to have to make everything confidential, as Desdemona does, but he might very well have to if she starts to pose a larger threat.

“The Railroad wants to see the Institute destroyed as much as we do,” he starts, quiet. “But once we attack the Institute, all our resources will be dedicated to seeing them removed from the face of the Earth. We have our reserve forces, but they won’t be enough to defend us if she decides to attack them.”

“You think she would do that?” she asks. “Go behind our backs, and separate us?”

“It’s what I would do,” he says. “She could do it to the Minutemen, and likely have a higher chance of success. Our reserve forces still consist of trained soldiers. Yours consist of any settler who knows how to hold a gun.”

“Please don’t tell me that this was how you intended on getting rid of the Minutemen if we posed a threat.”

He’s silent for a long moment. “Regardless of my previous intentions,” he starts, “due to our, ahem, more _personal_ alliance, your family is now my own, and vice versa. There were political reasons behind our initial agreement, even if they’ve given way to more sentimental reasons now. You didn’t have a plan for the Brotherhood if we didn’t agree to your proposed alliance?”

“That is... beside the point,” she says, flushed with shame.

He snorts. They’re both control freaks, and neither of them would have agreed to an alliance if they didn’t have a backup plan of some sort. “Desdemona is a risk. Unless you can get rid of her, and only her, _and_ ensure that the remainder of Railroad won’t retaliate against you for killing their leader... I don’t see any other option.”

She swears under her breath, running her hand over her face. “We’re already fighting one war. I didn’t want to fight a second, but they pose a threat to everyone’s safety.”

“Within a week of you being in the Commonwealth, you fought a Deathclaw with nothing but a minigun that had been rusting for two centuries. I have difficulty believing that you are concerned for ‘safety.’”

“That was over a year ago,” she says. “Now... Now it isn’t just my safety I have to be concerned about.”

Sometimes, he forgets that she’s pregnant. There are a million things that he has to be concerned about, and he knows all too well what it’s like to be pestered by endless questions because he’s the man in charge, even if there are a dozen others who could answer their questions for them. Other days though, it’s all he can be concerned about, and he tears through the Prydwen like an anxious hurricane that does little but given Ingram a headache.

Eleanor sighs, shoulders sagging. “The Wasteland isn’t the safest place to raise a child. The other day when I got upset with you for breaking policy to order me not to go to the Glowing Sea... You did it in the wrong manner, but I see now that you were right. Cade cleared me after, but going was a stupid decision. I was lucky, but how many more times do you think I will be lucky until my luck runs out? I’ve escaped death too many times.”

 _So that’s what this is about,_ Arthur thinks. “You’re worried about Desdemona not because she puts the Minutemen at risk, but because she forces you to step in, and put yourself in the line of danger just to stop her.”

“I am, for all intents and purposes, the cavalry,” she says with no small amount of bitterness in her voice. “But yes. I can’t... I _shouldn’t_ be risking my life. Not anymore. Before, I only had to be concerned about me. Now, however... I’m starting to think that I, perhaps, overreacted. You had a point. A fair one.”

“Are you... admitting that you were wrong?”

“I would never,” she says, but the wicked glint in her eyes says otherwise. He doesn’t get many opportunities to talk to her, not like this. Most times, he has to talk to her about business, and politics. Not her fears and worries. He had joked about them talking about their problems out over a cup of coffee rather than argue when it all becomes too much to handle, but this is... Nice. Better.

_Healthy._

“No, I won’t admit that I was wrong, but...” Eleanor says, “maybe I wasn’t right. I need to be more careful. I need to take precautions that I haven’t been. But Desdemona...”

“I won’t let her lay a finger on you,” he says.

“It’s not _me_ I’m concerned about,” she says sharply. “Desdemona poses a risk to all of us, and if she wants to see the Brotherhood destroyed... She’ll kill you.”

“She wants to see you dead too.”

“She’s wanted me dead for a year. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

“And yet,” she sighs, “I am. So what do we do?”

He doesn’t quite know, doesn’t quite have a definitive answer, but he knows that he needs something solid, something certain. She’s turning to him because she’s lost, and if he’s lost himself, what is she supposed to do? “I think we should wait,” says Arthur. “Until she makes a bigger move, and then... If she crosses a line, we can make certain that she knows.”

He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, and she leans into his touch, eyes closed. A breath escapes her as she relaxes; this is a rare moment of peace that they had stolen when everything else seems to be falling apart around them. She turns to face him, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

“I wish...” she whispers. “I wish you were born pre-War. That we could have met, lived out our days... Hell, I don’t know, even if we weren’t who we are. Nice house to ourselves, nothing to worry about besides each other.”

“I know,” he murmurs into the top of her head, the scent of lilacs filling his nose. “Trust me, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there are more typos in this than there normally are. I'm having problems with my graphics card on my laptop, so I've sent it away to get fixed, and now I'm writing on Google Docs which uhhhh doesn't have a particularly good editing software. Grammarly's got its uses, but it's primarily good for formal writing, and it hates my use of the Oxford comma, but you'll have to pry the Oxford comma from my cold, dead hands if you want to take it from me, Grammarly. I have rather strong opinions about these things... to no one's surprise.
> 
> Minor update: Laptop's back! Still writing on Google Docs because I've started my new job, and it's full time, so I haven't had the chance to move everything back over to Word. Things should be fine in the next couple chapters. Let me know if things are weird.


	44. Chapter Forty Four

After Eleanor had snuck onto the Prydwen, Arthur had insisted that security be raised. They had been lucky that she had not been an enemy spy, sneaking aboard only so she could kill them as they slept. But if Eleanor, the General of the Minutemen who had little to no training in the art of subterfuge— _or being subtle, for that matter—_ could breach their defences, then the Institute almost certainly could.

If the incident with Danse had proved one thing, it was that the Institute’s synths are everywhere, and they cannot be anything less than careful.

 _And yet._ Arthur thinks to himself, _here we stand._

He takes great pride in the fact that he knows every single one of his soldiers. It serves to establish a sense of loyalty between them. His men know that he is looking out for them, and in return, they serve without hesitation under their protector, though Eleanor _does_ have him worrying that perhaps his authority should be questioned from time to time. The only reason Eleanor had managed to slip past their defences was by using a Stealth Boy to slip onto a vertibird, and then had loudly announced her presence the instant she had made her way onto the Prydwen.

Spies, however, are not as brazen as she is.

Arthur stares down the barrel of his laser pistol, finger hovering over the trigger. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Even if he wears Brotherhood fatigues, Arthur _knows_ that this man does not serve under him. He seems inconspicuous enough, but an innocent man would be begging for him not to shoot.

A guilty man knows that there’s a reason he has a gun aimed at his head.

“Not even a hello?” the man jokes, his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Arthur doesn’t respond, his grip tightening on his pistol. “Ouch. Tough crowd. Knew you were a piece of work, but—”

“That’s _enough_ . Both of you” Eleanor meets Arthur’s gaze over the intruder’s shoulder, gesturing for him to lower his weapon. He doesn’t like this. _Any_ of this. “You don’t need to antagonise him.”

The intruder shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Y’know, I was actually kind of hoping he’d shoot me. New scar to show off, and talk about.”

Arthur scowls, unamused by the man’s lightheartedness. This isn’t the time, nor the place, to be making jokes. “Who are you,” he growls, “and what do you want?”

He removes a hand from his pocket, shoving it towards Arthur with a grin that stretches from ear to ear. “Hi, I’m Deacon.” And then, dropping his voice several octaves in what Arthur assumes is a bad impression of him: “ _Hi, Deacon. I’m Maxson._ ”

“Stop antagonising him,” Eleanor reprimands, narrowing her eyes. “I haven’t seen you in a year. Why the actual, literal _fuck_ are you here now?”

Deacon laughs nervously, scratching at the nape of his neck. For a second, it looks like he’s curling a lock of hair around his finger, but then the entirety of his black hair slips free, exposing a clean, shaved head. Arthur hadn’t realised that his disguise had been so extensive, even if it hadn’t worked. Eleanor’s question, however, does seem to make him uneasy. He stops joking, for just one minute, as he ponders his response. “Dez... Uh... She told us to not talk to you. Threatened us with a ‘punishment’ if we did. She didn’t appreciate you pulling a gun on her.”

 _Railroad._ Arthur’s starting to think that he should have shot him.

“She shouldn’t have asked me to do what she did,” Eleanor murmurs. “She wanted me to tear a family apart. I couldn’t do that.”

“Couldn’t do that even to save the guy’s life? This line of work ain’t easy, Wanda. We gotta do what we gotta do, and that had to be done.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again, Deacon,” she says, but behind the sharpness to her voice, there is something softer, something sadder. He had assumed that they know each other just from the way she had entered the observation deck with wide eyes— _and they must know each other well if she could recognise him in a disguise—_ but her melancholy makes him wonder if he is more than just one of the people she had come to know during her travels. “And it’s not Wanda anymore. Not Wanderer, either. Eleanor, Ridley, General, or Paladin. Take your pick. I have more choices if any of those aren’t to your taste.”

Deacon’s countenance twists in something Arthur can’t quite decipher. Pain? Longing? “You’ve changed,” he says. “Knew it would happen, but I didn’t think it’d happen so fast. Spending too much time around the Brotherhood of Bigots, have you?”

“That’s _enough_ ,” she repeats, voice twice as venomous as before. “They’re my family. Don’t you dare insult them in my presence. Or at all, preferably.”

“Gave up on the whole Minutemen thing, did you?”

“No,” Arthur says, wrapping one arm around Eleanor’s waist, and pulling her into his side. “That’s not the kind of family she means.”

Deacon frowns, struggling to put the pieces together, but then he clues in. “Oh. Oh no. Wanda, you _didn’t_.”

“It’s _Eleanor_ ,” she corrects. “We’re not friends, Deacon. You don’t get to judge me.”

“I would judge you less if I knew that you had told Hancock, but I’m willing to be all the caps I’ve got on me that you haven’t. Am I wrong?” Her silence is enough of an answer for him. Deacon grits his teeth, looking away from Arthur. “You couldn’t have chosen anyone else? Anyone other than him? The Brotherhood used to be the good guys. Before he came along, at least.”

Eleanor’s hand curls into a fist behind her back. “Hancock and I separated three weeks after I last saw you. This isn’t his concern.”

“You think he wouldn’t want to know?”

Arthur still has one hand on his gun, ready to fire if Deacon goes a step too far. “I’ve already asked you why you’re here. And so did Eleanor. I’m not going to ask again.”

Deacon casts one last pained glance at Eleanor. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not staying long. Just thought after everything we’ve been through, I should give you a heads up. Owe you that much, at least. Dez is planning an attack on the Brotherhood. Heard some rumours you were running with these guys lately, and I wanted to make sure that you were far away when it happened. She’s been turning a blind eye to what the Minutemen have been doing, but she uh... me it clear that if the Minutemen defended the Brotherhood, we shouldn’t spare them. Came to warn Charmer too, but she’s holed up in Diamond City. Wish I’d known before I walked all the way over here.”

Eleanor covers her mouth with her hand. “She wouldn’t.”

“She says that she doesn’t have a choice. What she’s planning next requires her to... I don’t know, Wanda. You know how Dez is. Doesn’t give any more information than necessary.”

“There are few people who are more loyal to Desdemona than you are,” Eleanor says. “I shouldn’t trust a word you’re saying.”

“Don’t trust me anymore?”

“Why should she?” Arthur asks, his arm wrapping tighter around Eleanor’s waist. “You’re Railroad. Your leader has made it clear that she wants both of us dead if we get in her way. And you’re loyal to her.”

“I’m loyal to the Railroad,” Deacon says. “Not necessarily to Dez.”

“ _Necessarily_ ,” he repeats, scoffing. “But you aren’t denying it?”

“I’m a spy, Maxson. Not a liar.”

“Contradictory.”

“Not,” Deacon says through gritted teeth, “necessarily.”

Eleanor holds up a hand, silencing them both. “Deacon,” she says. “We were friends once. We’re not anymore. I don’t blame you for that. I knew Desdemona would order you to stay away the instant I pulled a gun on her. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. But I’m sorry. He’s right. How can I trust you? I haven’t spoken to you in a year, and now you’re telling me to what? Start another fucking war?”

“No.” Deacon glances down at his hands. “I’m telling you to run. Get out of the Commonwealth. Dez won’t stop until you’re dead, and I... You’ve done a lot of things I don’t agree with, Wanda. Siding with these bigots—”

“ _Deacon_.”

“—starting a family with _him_ , but I don’t want to see you dead,” he finishes. “You have no reason to trust me, and I’ve given you no reason to, but... Believe me. Please.”

“I do,” she says, swallowing. “Desdemona’s been pushing into Minutemen territory for weeks, trying to recruit all those with useful skills. Doctors, mechanics, farners... She doesn’t want to kill anyone who could add something to the Railroad. So yeah, I believe you, Deacon. But I’m not going to run. I’m sick, and fucking _tired_ of running. I warned Desdemona that if she stood in my way again, I would hold a gun to her head again, and this time I was going to pull the trigger. And I follow through on my threats.”

“There are people in the Railroad who don’t deserve to die, Wanda.”

“I didn’t say I was going to kill them,” Eleanor growls, pushing herself away from Arthur, and storming towards the upper decks. “But Desdemona...” She pauses, looking back at Deacon. “Tell anyone who wants to see the sunrise to book it the fuck out of the church, because if Desdemona’s going after me, I’m sure as hell going after her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get me wrong, I adore Deacon, but him and El still have a rather tense relationship after what happened with Dez. BUT ALL THAT ASIDE. FALLOUT 76. OH. MY. GOD. I can't wait until E3, Bethesda, please, just let me know if it's going to be an MMO or not so I can decide whether or not I'll buy it. (I say that, disliking MMOs and still having purchased ESO because I am... weak. In all likelihood, I'll end up buying it even if I don't end up playing it. Even if I have fifty some games I still need to play, but I can't help it. I'm a completionist, and I can't move on to a new game until I've 100% my current one.)


	45. Chapter Forty Five

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe of the Castle armoury. Half the room has been cleared of weapons and supplies, leaving behind nothing but empty racks, and opened crates. Few things remain untouched, and he suspects it’s primarily because of the locks on the latches.

“What happened,” he says slowly, “to staying out of trouble?”

Eleanor freezes, her hand hesitating over a bulletproof vest that seems like it’s exchanged hands one too many times, the fabric cover starting to tear, and exposing the ballistic insert beneath. “Things change,” she mutters, throwing the vest into a duffel bag by her feet. “I can’t let Desdemona get away with this.”

“You could let the Brotherhood handle this.”

“No.” She shakes her head, several stray locks of hair falling from the tight knot she had secured at the base of her neck. “I follow through on my threats.”

He doesn’t recognise the woman standing before him, and it isn’t just because her back is turned to him. It’s like she has tunnel vision, so focused on getting revenge on Desdemona for daring to even  _ threaten  _ her Minutemen. She can’t even see him. “No one would blame you if you didn’t.”

She bristles. “That’s not the point, Arthur. She’s trying to hurt the people I care about... She wants you dead.”

“She wants  _ you  _ dead.”

“She’s wanted me dead the instant I stepped into Old North Church. Nothing’s changed. We’ve already talked about this, and you said to wait until she made a bigger move. To wait until she went too far. I can ignore her spies. I can’t ignore her trying to destroy both the Minutemen and the Brotherhood.”

Arthur stepped up behind her, place a hand over her own. She stills under his touch, but she is still tense, as though she’s prepared to run at a moment’s notice. “We can’t afford another war,” he murmurs. “We’re spread thin as it is.”

“The Church isn’t particularly defended, and I’m not going to put an end to the Railroad. I’m going to put an end to Desdemona. I don’t even need anyone to come with me. I’ll slip in, and I’ll slip out.”

“You say that like they won’t shoot you when they learn what you’ve done to their leader.”

With her free hand, Eleanor shuts the lid of the trunk she had been rummaging around, manoeuvring herself around to face him. She cranes her neck to look up at him, leaning back against the trunk. “You’re worried that I won’t come back.”

“Why do you sound surprised by that?” he asks. “Should I not be?”

“I’ll come back,” she says. “I always do.”

He almost doesn’t want to hear the excuses she’s come up with. What she’s saying is what every single one of his soldiers say right before they don’t come home, and he’s writing letters of condolences to their families. Instead, he lets out a sigh, meeting her eyes. “Eleanor.”

“Arthur,” she returns, mocking his tone. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

_ That’s what they all say. _

“And if you're not?”

“Then I pray for those who would try to keep you from getting revenge,” she says, attempting to turn back towards the trunk behind her, but he places a finger beneath her jawline, forcing her to look at him.

“Let me come with you,” he says.

“I can't. Even if I thought that that was a good idea, which I don't. You're too valuable. Someone's got to continue the Maxson line, right? If I take you with me, I'd be putting all my eggs in one basket.”

“There's only one Ridley, too,” he murmurs. “What happens if you fail?”

“What, you don't believe in me, and my skills?”

Despite how serious the situation is, despite how much he needs her to understand that this is important, he finds himself smiling. “I believe that you have chronic bad luck.”

She doesn't even argue. “Yes, but...”

“I'm not going to stop you from going,” Arthur says quietly, “but I'm not letting you go alone.”

“Don't worry. She's not.”

Arthur turns, glancing back over his shoulder where Danse leans against the war. He looks younger somehow, as though the Minutemen-branded fatigues have taken five years off of him. His dark hair isn't slicked back as it used to be. Instead, it falls in messy waves over his watchful, brown eyes.

“Elder,” he says with a nod.

He winces. “You don't serve under me anymore, James. Maxson, or Arthur will suffice.”

“You usually reserve that right for your friends.” It isn't a question, but they both know it secretly is one.  _ What am I to you now?  _ Danse asks him without saying a word. “You look... good. Healthy.”

“It's only been three weeks. Not much has changed.”

“Has it really?” Danse raises a surprised brow. “Feels like an eternity.”

This forced cordiality is stifling; it isn't often that such distant formality is shared between former friends. “Yes,” Arthur says, and he can't keep the wistfulness out of his voice. “It does.”

Eleanor blinks, ducking her head. “I'll be fine, Arthur,” she murmurs. “James is one of the best soldiers I know. He'll have my back.”

That doesn't mean he likes this. “If anything happens to her...” he starts.

Danse just nods, not even bothering to try to argue. He knows that he is only alive as long as she's around to protect him. “Nothing will, sir. I'd die to protect her.”

“Speaking of protection—” Eleanor begins, but one sharp look from Arthur makes her pause. She furrows her brows, and continues on, undeterred. “We, well  _ I _ , wanted you to be our child's godfather.”

He almost recoils with surprise, although it might be because of the glare Arthur is giving him right now rather than anything else. “Wow. That's... I'm honoured. I just think that maybe it's not the... best idea.”

“Sleep on it,” she says, as though Arthur will agree to this now that he knows Danse is a synth. It had been a different matter when he had thought that he was human, and part of the reason as to why they'd chosen him was because he'd ensure that their child stayed within the Brotherhood, and didn't let their family name go to their head all. He was a friend, and one the had trusted. Now, all of that is meaninglessness. He isn't Brotherhood, and he isn't...

He isn’t...

A year ago he would have laughed if someone told him that he would ever call a synth a friend, but he doesn’t know what else to call Danse when he looks at him. Of all the men who had served under him for the same amount of time as Danse had, there are few he can say he trusts. Danse, while loyal, had always been willing to offer his sincerest opinions if Arthur had asked for them. He was one of his best soldiers, and Arthur had trusted him. He doesn’t know if he would have called Danse a close friend—that title seems solely reserved for Ingram—but he had certainly been  _ a  _ friend.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks, what he wants. The Brotherhood will  _ never  _ allow a synth to be the godfather of a Maxson.

The tension between the three of them doesn’t escape Danse’s notice, and he awkwardly scratches the back of his head. “I will, General,” he says, pulling a laser rifle off of a shelf. He gestures towards it as though he intends to say something, but ends up keeping his mouth shut. Instead, he nods at his former commanding officer, his sadness unmistakable. “Arthur.”

“James,” he returns, and when he glances back at Eleanor, she has a strange look on her face. She bites her lip in an attempt to force herself to hold her tongue. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You were just... a lot more cordial than I had expected you to be. A few of your soldiers stopped by here earlier today, and when they saw him...” She sighs. “They shut up as soon as they saw me, but if I hadn’t been there... I’ve seen James get jumped by a whole pack of ferals, and he didn’t even break a sweat. When I talked to him after what the other soldiers said...”

“I’ll talk to them. Make it clear that they need to be respectful.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but it won’t do anything but make them resent both him, and you. You can’t order someone to like another person without both parties becoming bitter. And James... He still feels like he betrayed you somehow. I keep telling him that it’s not his fault, that he couldn’t have betrayed you if he didn’t know, but you know him. He doesn’t listen. Not when he doesn’t want to.” Eleanor leans even further back against the steamer trunk, unable to look at him. “He needs time. That’s all. Right now, we need to focus on the mission.”

“And whether or not he’s going to be our child’s godfather?”

“Don’t give me that. We both knows he’s going to say no. He wants to say yes, that much is clear, but he knows you don’t think of him as a friend. Not anymore. He wouldn’t want to overstep your bounds.”

“It’s not about what I want—”

“—it’s about what the Brotherhood wants, yes, I know,” she finishes, bitter. “You don’t have to make decisions solely based upon whether or not they’d agree with them, you know. Synths... Synths aren’t human, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve the right to live. It doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a chance at happiness.”

He lets out a sigh, and decides to drop the subject before they both start arguing, and say things they don’t mean. She makes decisions to get approval from the Minutemen just as often as he makes decisions to get approval from the Brotherhood. There’s no sense in fighting over it. He knows neither of them will change. Silently, Arthur reaches out to brush a lock of hair away from her face. “Tomorrow,” he whispers, “come home.”

“Home,” she repeats, just as quiet. “Didn’t think I’d call the Prydwen home when I first snuck aboard, but... A lot can change in six months.”

“The Prydwen isn’t home to me,” he says.

She raises a brow. “No?”

“No,” he affirms. “It’s where you are.”

Eleanor only laughs, throwing her head back. Her eyes sparkle with mirth. “I appreciate the sentiment, but fucking hell, that was cheesy.”

He can’t help but smile, her amusement contagious. “And trust me, I’ve made decisions that would the Western Elders want to rip their hair out. I’ve alerted them to our...  _ ahem _ , situation.”

“And? What did they say?”

“I don’t know,” he says, bending down to whisper against her lips. “I refuse to open their messages, and quite frankly...” He continues downwards, dragging his teeth down the column of her throat. He doesn’t know what it is about her neck that does it for him, but he can never stop himself when she bares herself so openly— _ so submissively _ —to him. “I couldn’t give less of a damn.”

She laughs again, and he can feel the vibrations as he softly bites down where her neck meets her shoulders. “It’s easy to forget sometimes that you’re only twenty, and then you say things like that.”

“Twenty  _ one _ ,” he growls into her skin. “I’m twenty two in April.”

“Touchy subject?” she asks, hooking a finger beneath his chin to force him to look up at her. “I still say you look thirty.”

“And you don’t look a day over two hundred and thirty four.”

“Thirty  _ five _ ,” she corrects, just as irritated as he had been when she’d got his age wrong. “And I say I look remarkable for my age, hm? Might even say I have the body of a twenty five year old.”

He snorts, unable to hold back his amusement. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “I might have to check for myself.”

She suddenly turns bright red, eyes widening. “Not here,” she hisses. “Someone could walk in.”

“And what were you saying the other day about installing doors on my observation deck?” he teases, enjoying just how much redder she becomes with every word he utters. “Don’t tell me: you’re afraid of getting caught. You, Eleanor Ridley, who was willing to leave me chained to a bed—”

She claps a hand over his mouth just as someone passes by the door, but they don’t seem to notice the General and the Elder holed up in the Castle armoury. He nips at her palm, and she quickly draws her hand back, shooting him a glare. “That was different. That was punishment.”

“Didn’t seem like much of a punishment to me,” he says, leaning in closer to her to murmur in her ear. “I rather enjoyed the thought of someone watching us. I wanted them to know that you’re  _ mine _ , even if it meant that I had to be chained to a bed.”

Her breath hitches in her throat—the only indication of her thoughts on the matter, save for just how large her pupils have become, nearly eclipsing her irises.

“Wh-What are you doing?” she gasps as he gets to his knees, his fingers deftly unbuttoning her coat. Her white shirt is so thin he can see the outline of her black bra beneath. He knows, without even having to check, that her underwear is the same colour. “People could—” But her protests fall short as he slips a hand beneath her shirt and her bra, palming at her breasts. A ragged gasp tears from her lips, and she presses herself into this touch, despite her insistence that people will walk in on them. “ _ Fuck _ . Give me... Give me an hour, and we can... I have things I need to...” Every single one of her sentences is caught off as he tweaks her nipple, rolling it between two fingers. “ _ Arthur _ . If you start this, I  _ know  _ I’ll be with you for the rest of the night, and I have to get a few things ready for tomorrow. Give me an hour. Please. I promise.” She runs her fingers through his beard, cupping the underside of his jaw. “And then I’m yours until morning.”

He pulls his hand back, laughing under his breath as he stands. She’s just as bad as he is; unable to think of anything but work even as other things preoccupy her. “An hour,” he agrees.

“I’ll send for you when I’m done,” she says, buttoning up her coat.

“I’ll be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know how I write my smut scenes well enough to know that this was 100% a set up to next chapter. So! Onto the smut we go!


	46. Chapter Forty Six [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write desk sex since I started this damn thing, and I feel bad about not having a sex scene in a good couple chapters, so here's 3.5k of a healthy combination of cunnilingus ~~I've determined I hate that word, and I'm never using it again, just like I will never spell it as "cum" sorry~~ and desk sex.
> 
> (Also "wont" is a word, it's just not commonly used, leave me alone Grammarly. But then again Grammarly also hates my use of the Oxford comma, so it can officially kiss my ass. I miss Word... And my computer. _Ugh._ )

Arthur doesn’t want to say that he is not wont to getting wrapped up in his work, but as one hour becomes two, then three, and he still hears nothing from Eleanor, he has to say that she is far worse about it than he is. He understands that the amount of work he has will take far longer than he expects it to, but Eleanor’s passion for her duties distracts her from paying attention to the world around her. It’s what leads her to taking the risks that she does, even if she knows that she has to be more careful now.

A part of him wants to return to the Prydwen, if only to see how long it would take her to notice that he had disappeared, but he isn’t that petty. She isn’t doing this to get back at him; she isn’t doing this to be cruel.

He pushes himself off of the sofa in Eleanor’s quarters, running his hand over the arm with a faint smile on his lips. God, he still remembers the taste of cherry cola on her lips as he had bent her over, and fucked her from behind, her skintight Vault suit discarded in a puddle of cobalt fabric by her feet. Her scent of lilacs had been partially masked beneath the heady blend of cinnamon, and leather from when she had stolen his coat.

Arthur shrugs out of his coat, draping it over the arm of the sofa before exiting Eleanor’s quarters as he attempts to find her office. The Castle isn’t as clearly laid out as the Prydwen is, though the pentagonal grounds don’t exactly lend themselves to being easily navigated. Through pure chance, he stumbles across it, only to find her scribbling away at some papers. Her hair has been messily tied back away from her face, but after three hours, its tie is coming loose, and she frequently has to pause to push it behind her ears.

“More work than you expected?” Arthur asks, leaning against the doorframe, one brow quirked in amusement.

Eleanor’s head shoots up, letting out a frustrated sigh. “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten.”

“Shit,” she hisses. “Arthur, I’m sorry. I got caught up—”

“No need to apologise,” he says, stepping further into the room. He peers over the side of her desk to take a look at the stack of papers spread out in front of her. Her cursive is rather difficult to read from the best of angles, and is almost unintelligible upside down, but the simple diagrams, and the numbers make enough sense. Requests for ammunition, inventory lists from settlements, budgets... “You look like you have your plate full.”

Her shoulders sag. “I was almost finished, and then Preston showed up with a whole stack of things I had neglected to address. Apparently, I’ve been spending too much time with the Brotherhood, and neglecting my duties here. He was polite enough about it, but I could tell he was getting frustrated, so when he offered to deal with it...” She gestures to the papers strewn across her desk. “You can see how that worked out, and apparently, I need to speak with Hancock about formally allying Goodneighbour with the Minutemen.”

“Is it not allied with the Minutemen already?” he asks, almost surprised. “Given your history—”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “For all intents and purposes, it’s technically Railroad territory. Hancock’s looking to change that, given what they intend to do to us, but there’s a whole slew of formalities we need to address first. He’s supposed to be here any minute.”

“Ellie,” he murmurs, “you need to sleep.”

She rubs at her eyes. “And eat. And drink more water. And...” Eleanor blows out a breath, setting her pen down. Her eyes follow Arthur as he takes a seat on the edge of her desk, swallowing when he begins to toy with her stray locks of hair. “Trust me, I know. There just never seems to be enough time. I’m sorry. This wasn’t what I had planned for tonight.”

Arthur isn’t a particularly small man. He has a good six inches on Eleanor, and his broad shoulders are bulky from years of rigorous training. He has the body of a soldier; all wrought muscle and battle scars, and the polar opposite of Eleanor’s soft, rounded curves. She has the body of a pre-War woman who had not seen much hardship until she had found herself in the Wasteland, but the Wasteland has been his home for almost twenty two years, and it shows.

None of that, however, crosses his mind as he takes a look at desk. It’s one of those impressive “executive” types made of solid wood—four feet long, and nearly two and a half feet deep, with a wooden panel at the back that extends to the floor. He doesn’t have the space for such a desk aboard the Prydwen. His quarters are large enough, but it serves as his bedroom as well as his office space, and the added dressers and bed take up quite a bit of room.

“I don’t like that look on your face,” Eleanor says, narrowing her eyes. “You’re planning something.”

“You said Hancock’s supposed to be here soon,” he says slowly. “How long do you think your meeting will run?”

“I don’t know. Half an hour?”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” She frowns. “What do you mean by that?” He doesn’t respond immediately, tapping her chair to prompt her to push it back from the desk. She hesitates, but complies after a moment’s pause, frown deepening. “Arthur.”

“You,” he says, pressing his lips to hers, “need to relax.”

She blinks, not knowing what to say as he drops to his knees beneath the desk, undoing the buttons of her trousers. “The meeting with Hancock—”

“Will go according to plan,” he finishes, “so long as you keep quiet. Normally, I’d stop if you made a noise, if you drew any attention to what I was doing, but this time I’ll make it worse for you if you can’t bite your tongue. If I make you gasp, trust that next time I’ll make you moan, and then what will Hancock think of you then?”

“Is this some sort of perverse jealousy of John?” she mutters, stiffening as he spreads her legs wide open beneath the desk, firmly situating himself between them. “You _want_ him to know what you’re doing.”

His eyes glint with something dark, and wicked. “And if you don’t want him to know, then I suggest you learn how to restrain yourself.”

“ _Arthur_ —” she starts, but cuts herself off as he experimentally drags the tip of his nose across her clothed mound. She has to bite down on her lip to keep back the gasp that threatens to escape her. “Do you get off on this?”

“I won’t be the one getting off tonight,” is all he says as he pulls her trousers down to expose her plain, black panties that match her bra, just as he had expected them to. He almost has to fight a groan at the sight, but this isn’t about him. Not right now. He wants her to give him away during her meeting with Hancock. He wants the ghoul to know that she’s his.

There’s a damp spot in the fabric of her underwear, turning the already dark fabric even darker. He has to force himself not to tear them off of her, knowing that she’d be upset with him for ruining her belongings, particularly when undergarments of any sort are difficult to come by in the Wasteland. No sooner than he has them down around her ankles does someone knock on the open door.

“Hey, Sunshine,” rasps Hancock as he steps into the room. Arthur doesn’t pay the ghoul’s presence any mind. He’s not the one concerned that he’s going to get caught.

God, but he wants to see her come apart at the seams. He wants her to fall apart, her gloved hands gripping the arms of her chair with enough strength that the wood would creak, and he wants her to be unable to look Hancock in his black eyes for the next _month_ without thinking about what had transpired here tonight.

“John,” Eleanor says. “I’ve missed you.” He has no reason to be jealous— _and he isn’t_ —but he lightly bites down on the soft skin of Eleanor’s inner thigh regardless, reminding her of his presence. She jumps at the slight prick of his teeth, but manages to disguise it by adjusting her posture. “Please, take a seat.”

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” Hancock says, chuckling to himself. “Three months?”

“Something like that,” she says, her breath hitching in her throat as Arthur leaves a trail of scratchy kisses down her inner thigh, beard scraping along her skin. She covers it with an all-too-forced cough, and he has to bite back his laughter. He doesn’t know why he had ever expected her to be quiet. “I’m—” Another cough, and he wonders if Hancock can tell that she’s blushing. “I’m glad you decided to become a part of this.”

“I’ve been meanin’ to do it for a while,” the Ghoul says. “Your heart’s in the right place, and I couldn’t stand with the Railroad any longer. Not if what Preston says is true. Don’t know why I’m surprised. Whole world’s gone to shit lately.”

She laughs under her breath. “You’re starting to sound like Cait.”

“She’s like that,” Hancock mumbles. “And she ain’t wrong. Still... Thought the Brotherhood was only here to make things worse. Boss people ‘round, fuck shit up for the rest of us, but they uh...”

“You don’t have to convince me you like the Brotherhood, John. Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you. I have my own problems with the Brotherhood, but we’re—Arthur and I, sorry—are working on it.”

“You’re serious about him, huh. Bristles?” It isn’t really a question. “He said that he loved you.”

“We’re expecting,” Eleanor says in way of an answer. “I’m due this summer.”

“Well... shit.” Hancock lets out a low whistle. “Listen, I’m not sayin’ I’m not happy for you—‘cause I am—but I wanna know: do you ever...?”

A long moment of silence, and Arthur pulls back away from her leg to hear her answer. “Miss you?” she asks. “Sometimes. But we wouldn’t have worked out. A junkie, and a drunk. Bad combination.”

“Yeah.” Arthur can’t see the ghoul, but his tone is wistful enough that it practically drips from his words. “Bad combination.” He clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness between them. “Business, then?”

Arthur tunes the conversation out, his eyes darting to Eleanor’s damp sex, and the shine of her damp, ashen curls. He’s half hard beneath his briefs, but he hardly pays it any mind as he drags his tongue up the length of her slit. It’s like he’s electrocuted her—she jolts so suddenly from the sensation that it’s a small wonder that Hancock hasn’t called her out yet.

He has tasted her before— _sweet, yet somewhat salty, and not altogether unpleasant_ —but it’s different this time. She’s positively _dripping_ for him, proof that the idea of getting caught arouses her even if her common sense says that she shouldn’t be allowing this to happen, and he can tell that his beard is slick with her arousal. His nose brushes across her clit, and if his hand weren’t resting on her hip, she’d have bucked into him. Yet, she does not make a noise.

 _Good girl,_ he thinks. _Perhaps when we’re done here, I’ll let you have more than just my mouth._

But damn if he doesn’t want to see her _beg_ him, even if Hancock’s still in the room.

“We are— _fuck_ ,” Eleanor hisses as he pulls back to slowly press two fingers into her. “Sorry. I haven’t slept in a couple days. Keep... Keep forgetting where I’m going with what I’m saying. We are insisting that any settlements with us help circulate... trade. Infrastructure. It’s important.”

He almost laughs at her frustrated attempts to remain composed, but he doesn’t want to give himself away. Instead, Arthur curls his fingers inside of her, brushing against the spot in her inner walls that has made her scream his name so many times.

And, so quiet he doubts Hancock even hears it, an involuntary whine escapes her.

A better man would have felt bad about drawing this out, about forcing her into a situation where every reaction is the wrong one, but he is not a better man. She can talk her way out of many things, but he’d like to see her try to explain why he—a man far too large to reasonably be crouched underneath her desk—has his face buried between her legs.

He drags his fingers out of her painfully slowly before plunging them back into her, and this time, the heel of his palm brushes against her clit. God, she’s fucking _perfect_ . There are few women who feel this fantastic— _the way she clenches down on him makes him want to forget this little game, and replace his fingers with his cock_ —and even fewer who would indulge his fantasies. She couldn’t give less of a damn about pleasing him during their day-to-day life—she needs to do what needs to be done, even if he doesn’t like it, but in private...

His cock stirs at the thought of her, flushed and begging for him to touch her while he complies, touching her everywhere _but_ the place she wants to be touched, _needs_ to be touched.

Arthur has to apply even more pressure to his grip on her hip as she tries to press herself into his touch, desperate for friction, no matter how little. He can feel that she’s close, her breath coming a little faster, and she jolts at every slight press of his fingers into her slick, wet heat.

“O-Of course we would ensure that... That... Goodneighbour profits from this arrangement,” Eleanor says through gritted teeth. “This is... After all, _ahem_ , a mutual agreement.”

“Would you like to continue this another time?” There’s no way in hell Hancock doesn’t know what’s going on. Eleanor’s terrible at being subtle, but then he hasn’t been making it easy on her.

“That isn’t necessary,” she almost growls, but she can’t hide how she rocks into his fingers as he fucks her with them, her legs starting to shake with the effort of remaining composed. He can’t see her all that well from this angle, but he can imagine what she must look like to Hancock—feverish, and struggling to breathe as he continues his wicked little ministrations beneath the table.

He adds a third finger to his two already inside of her, and it pushes her over the edge. Her entire body locks up as she comes, her inner walls fluttering around his fingers. She grips the arms of her chair so tight he worries that the wood will snap, her breath coming out in short little gasps.

“You know what, I think we should continue this tomorrow,” she somehow manages to get out, and Hancock mutters a quiet good night before shutting the door behind him on his way out. Eleanor almost hauls Arthur out from beneath the desk by the collar of his shirt, mouth insistently pressed against his. He wonders if she can taste herself on his lips, but he doesn’t have the time to ask as she pulls him back against the wall behind her. “I need you,” she whines. “Inside me. _Please._ ”

“Why can’t you ask this nicely when you want other things from me?” he asks against her pulse, chuckling as she knots her fingers through his hair, preventing him from pulling away. Her chest heaves as he grinds against her, cursing the layers of fabric between them. “You have until I take off my pants to clear your desk, otherwise I’m fucking you on top of all those important papers.”

As flushed as she is, she pales ever-so-slightly at his words. “Yes, sir,” she says hoarsely, letting go of him to rush to tidy her desk before he makes an even larger mess of it.

He watches her with wry amusement as he undoes his belt buckle, and the buttons of his trousers. She had kicked her pants and shoes off sometime between her forcing Hancock out, and dragging Arthur so he had her pinned against the wall. Somehow, the fact that she’s wearing nothing beneath her waist is more intimate than if she had been fully nude. It reminds him that there’s no way in hell Hancock doesn’t know  what they had been doing in his presence. Her hair, now loose, falls in frizzy waves around her face, drawing attention to her kiss-stung lips, and her hungry eyes.

She watches him as he carefully removes his clothes, setting them aside on top of a dresser. Only his holotags remain, glowing blue in the dim light, enough so that the metal stamped print of his name, and rank is clearly visible. They bounce against his chest, clinking against each other, as he steps towards her. When it comes to making decisions for the good of the Commonwealth, Eleanor fights him at every turn, but she doesn’t fight him now. She is nothing but compliant as he peels her coat from her shoulders, discarding it somewhere behind him, her shirt and bra soon following it.

His cock stands tall, and proud, the tip beading with pre, but he ignores the burning heat in the pit of his stomach as he focuses on the woman standing in front of him. Her nipples have darkened considerably in the past several weeks, no longer a dusty, pale rose, but he cannot say that it diminishes his attraction to her regardless. She’s having his _child_ , and in the coming months, she will be fat, and heavy, and she will still be the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Eleanor perches on the edge of her desk, still watching him as he presses himself against her, cock brushing against her stomach. The slight sensation is enough to make him hiss.

“Please,” she repeats in a whisper, not knowing if she’s allowed to speak. He usually tries to set up expectations for the night before he begins, but tonight is different. Tonight he’s making it up as he goes along, and he can’t say that he blames her for being cautious. She’s still shaking with the aftermaths of her last orgasm, and every press of him against her makes her shudder. “I need—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence as he thrusts up into her, knowing her body well enough that she’s familiar. A moan tears from her throat as she braces herself back against the desk, and he’s distantly aware, through the pounding of his heart in his ears, that she’s crying his name. One hand grips her hip hard enough that he’s certain she will have bruises tomorrow, but she doesn’t seem to care, insistently pressing herself against him as she _begs_ him to fill her.

He plants hot, wet kisses along her collarbone, his beard scratching at her skin, and rubbing it raw. The splotches of pink mark where he’s been, while his back is marked with long, raised lines from where she has dug her nails into him. The slight pain only grounds him, makes him focus on just how fucking _tight_ she is around his throbbing cock.

Her cries turn to strangled whimpers as he lets go of her hip to grab at her ass, unable to articulate her needs anymore. Everything she says comes out in senseless babbles of _please_ , and _Arthur,_ and _oh God, yes please_ as he drives himself deep inside of her with every thrust. Part of him wants to savour her, while the other wants to fuck her into the desk until she can’t walk tomorrow. He wants her to show up for breakfast tomorrow, her skin marked by his teeth, and grimacing every time she tries to close her legs.

He wants everyone to know that she’s _his_.

She’s lucky that it’s January, and no one will question her if she wears a scarf for the next week.

Eleanor is still sensitive from earlier, and soon shudders as she snaps, coming around his cock. She almost melts in his grip, head lolling back as she mouths wordlessly, eyes closed. It only serves to prompt him to thrust as deep as he can into her, teeth gritted, and his legs almost buckle beneath him as he comes, spilling deep inside of her as though she isn’t already carrying his child. Arthur struggles to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against hers. He doesn’t want to let her go, because if he does...

If he does, he knows that she might not come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, admittedly, was just smut and fluff for the sake of smut and fluff. The, ah, next chapters get rather... grim. Between Desdemona, the Watchers, and the fire (spoilers), El and Arthur aren't... exactly having a great time. But! We're quickly approaching the finale, so that's fun!
> 
> Not that I don't have the Maxson-Ridley family extensively planned out, but bets on baby Maxson's gender, and name? (Probably won't guess first name, but the middle name is a nice subtle reference to a piece of information only mentioned in FO3.) But that's all I'm going to say on that front. Rest assured that I'll be writing shorts and one shots of El/Arthur after Untarnished is finished, including their lives fifteen some years down the line.
> 
> But again... spoilers.
> 
> Also! (Sorry this end note is so long, whoops.) I apologise that updates are coming slower—full time jobs are... a lot, and my store's open 24/7 so I often finish late which means I just collapse into bed... I'm still writing this, I promise <3


	47. Chapter Forty Seven

Arthur has noticed, over the past several weeks, that there is a fundamental difference between the woman he knows as Eleanor, and General Ridley. The former is riddled with anxiety, perpetually asking herself if her son is who he is because of the Institute, or if he had inherited something from her—he has caught her, on more than one occasion, staring out the window at night. When he had asked her what was on her mind, she had shaken her head, and had muttered something about being unable to sleep, like he can’t tell that she’s shaking from the nightmares that plague her. Eleanor had not been trained to be a leader, but she leads regardless, and Arthur knows that she wants nothing more than to finally be able to say that the Commonwealth needs her no longer.

Eleanor wants to disappear.

General Ridley, on the other hand, can do anything but disappear. She burns as bright as the hottest flame, and she demands that people pay attention to her. There is a reason people believe in the Minutemen, and she’s it. Even as she flits about, ensuring that the Castle’s defences are fortified, and murmuring assurances to frightened settlers who had fled to the Minutemen’s headquarters for protection upon hearing that the Railroad intended to wipe them all out, Arthur can’t help but think that she ought to be depicted in oil paints, hung up next to the portraits of the great presidents and generals of yore.

She almost looks like a stranger—sounds like one too, given the lack of profanity as she consoles her settlers—in a skin-tight suit of matte, black armour, her blonde hair swinging from a ponytail. He has become accustomed to the prim, and proper appearance of the Minutemen’s General; all navy coat, her hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, and her weapons hidden as to not frighten the civilians under her protection. She doesn’t bother trying to hide her weapons now. Her modified 10mm pistol is strapped to her thigh, and he notices the rather large combat knife peeking out from the top of her boot.

But when Eleanor catches him watching her, she cracks a small smile, and he’s reminded that she isn’t all that different.

She says something he doesn’t catch to a woman cradling an infant before patting the woman’s shoulder, and making her way over to Arthur. Her countenance is solemn, grim, and he knows that her hands are only clasped behind her back to hide the fact that they’re shaking. Eleanor’s arched brows are set in a line as she meets his eyes. “A part of me is glad that everyone’s here, where we can protect them,” she says. “The other part of me... The other part of me wishes that Preston hadn’t sounded the alarms. They’re all afraid they’re going to die, and...” She trails off again, ducking her head. “I’ve promised all of them that they won’t, but I don’t know. It might not be true. They might die, and I won’t be able to do anything to stop it, and this is just the Railroad. What am I supposed to say to them when we finally attack the Institute?”

“The truth,” Arthur says, letting out a sigh. “They understand the risks.”

She makes a face. “They’re not soldiers, Arthur.”

“No, they’re not,” he agrees. “They’re wastelanders. They know that this world isn’t safe, and they know that you’re doing the best you can. How could they ask you to do anything more than that?”

She holds his gaze for a long moment before letting out an amused snort. “God, you’re a lot better at this than I am.”

Arthur chuckles at her surprised tone. “I’ve been doing it for longer,” he points out, looking out over the bailey of the Castle. Even though she’s preoccupied with their conversation, the settlers still look to her in awe. She is their shining beacon in the dark—she had ushered in a new dawn, and they know that. “You are... a good leader, Eleanor. Accept that. Have some faith. As... mm, brash as you are, you have earned the loyalty of your people for a reason.”

“But you’re not biased at all, are you?” Eleanor asks wryly, but as much as she deflects his praise, he can tell that his words have calmed her, if only by a little.

He lifts a shoulder, shrugging. “My... approval is not the easiest to come by.”

Her lips are still pursed, her hands still clasped behind her back, and she is as tense as she had been minutes ago, but her eyes glitter with amusement. “I hadn’t noticed,” she drawls, and he notices that her shoulders sag as she finally starts to relax. “So, what are you doing?”

“About?”

“The attack on the Church,” she says, looking to him out of the corner of her eye. “I had assumed you would insist on coming, regardless of whether or not you were allowed to. I went through the effort of speaking with the proctors, and getting them to sign off on it. It wasn’t easy. They all had to agree to it, otherwise the mission would have been... What did they call it? Unsanctioned?”

“I’m regretting the day you ever got a hold of the Brotherhood Codex,” he mumbles.

“You don’t like it when I follow protocol, and you don’t like it when I don’t. I can’t win.” She sounds irritated, but she can’t hide her growing smile. At long last, she unclasps her hands from behind her back, awkwardly crossing them over her chest. “You still haven’t given me an answer.”

He knows. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

“So long as you can behave yourself around Danse, yes,” she says. “The Railroad pose a larger threat to the Brotherhood than they do to the Minutemen. At least with us, they’re only going to kill those who resist. With the Brotherhood...”

Arthur’s stomach twists. He doesn’t need her to remind him that the Railroad wants to see them wiped from the face of the Commonwealth, perhaps even the entire wasteland. “It’s your mission,” he says. “If you give orders, I will follow them.”

She watches him for a moment, as though trying to determine whether or not he’s lying, but then she nods. “Then gear up. We leave in fifteen.”

Arthur had long since grown accustomed to the deafening whir of vertibirds, having spent enough time in them that he can put the sound of their blades at the back of his mind without a second thought. Though Danse might have been a paladin, and not part of the Brotherhood’s air force, he had certainly become accustomed to the noise during his years of service. It doesn’t stop either of them from using the sound as an excuse to not speak to each other. They sit in silence, watching each other out of the corner of their eyes when they think Eleanor isn’t looking.

What is there to even talk about?

There is nothing to say that hasn’t already been said, and they both know what the Codex says about fraternizing with exiles. Even if Arthur had formally discharged him—and an honourable discharge, at that—they also know that that’s not how the rest of the Brotherhood sees Danse. As far as they’re concerned, he’s a traitor.

And the Elder shouldn’t be speaking to traitors.

Even if that traitor had once been a friend.

Arthur’s starting to regret not getting to know Danse better while he had been a part of the Brotherhood. He is a better man than half of the soldiers still under his command; honourable, brave, and selfless. It isn’t hard to see why Eleanor’s fond of him. Certainly, Arthur would have said that he had been close with Danse, but he understands now that they were never really friends.

James Danse had been a brother.

Arthur’s grip tightens on his laser rifle, and he grits his teeth as he looks out at the Commonwealth below. He doesn’t know how Eleanor is so staunch in her beliefs  while still remaining in power. He supposes it helps that she’s the one that makes the Minutemen’s rules, but it must be more than that. There is little she could do that would make her lose the Minutemen’s favour. His men would die for him, but hers would go to hell and back if she asked them to. It’s a different sort of loyalty. The Brotherhood is proud to serve under him.

The Minutemen are proud to serve alongside her.

The vertibird sets down not too far from Old North Church, on the banks of the Charles River. Arthur doesn’t know where the Minutemen had managed to procure one—seeing as the navy and white paint job on it certainly means it isn’t the Brotherhood’s—but he does know that the Minutemen are far more resourceful than anyone gives them credit for. Danse gets out first, holding out his hand to help Eleanor down.

“I’ll radio you when we’re done,” Eleanor says, looking to the pilot. He nods, giving her the thumbs up as she ushers her companions away. “There’s an escape tunnel from the Church that runs through the catacombs,” she continues once they get far enough from the vertibird. “Deacon’s left the doors open.”

Danse looks remarkably small outside of his power armour, Arthur notes, even if the man is nearly his height. He rolls his shoulders back, looking to Eleanor. “I don’t trust him. We could be walking into a trap.”

“No,” she says. “If we go through the front entrance, as was my previous plan, we’ll meet resistance. Security. People will die trying to stop us. I don’t want that, and neither does Deacon. We fire upon no one unless they fire on us first. Desdemona included. If peace fails...” Eleanor clenches her jaw. “Well, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Do you have a plan if it does?”

Her gaze snaps to Arthur. He hadn’t even realised he had asked his question aloud, but it’s a question she needs to answer. What does she intend to do if it comes down to her life, or the Railroad’s? “I don’t know,” she answers. “The Railroad is... deluded, but they’re not insane. If I offer them a chance to end this without needless bloodshed... No, forget what I said. They’re not deluded. They’re just misguided. Synths deserve a chance to live, and they’re right about that. What they don’t deserve is to lose everything they are just so they can live. If they are to be protected, they will be protected. They will not have their entire world torn away from them, and then thrown into the cold wastelands, not knowing who they are, or why they’ve found themselves in a world they no longer recognise.”

Somehow, the bitterness in Eleanor’s voice makes him suspect that she’s not only talking about the synths.

“We’ll do what we can,” Danse says. “It ends here. It ends today.”

Arthur nods absentmindedly, looking over Eleanor’s shoulder to where four crows perch on a telephone line. Their beady black eyes bore into his, and with a caw, they take wing, and fly off towards the horizon. Crows in stories, he recalls from what he had read in the Brotherhood’s pre-War archives, never boded well. An ill omen, they said, like the wastelands need any more omens of misfortune.

As much as his waking day is spent by Eleanor’s side, Arthur realises he has seen her work but a few times in the months that he has known her. He has seen the paperwork she spends hours rifling through every night, but beyond that, he has seen very little. Bunker Hill had been the first time he’d seen her out in the field, and she had been unable to do much beyond following the Courser lest she had given herself away. But it’s clear as she takes point, heading towards the Railroad’s headquarters that she is the General for reasons beyond her ability to allocate food among her settlements.

The last time they had visited the Railroad, she had taken point too, he remembers, but their path had been cleared by Ashley who had found the Railroad mere hours before they had. But the Lone Wanderer isn’t here now to clear out the rabble that try to attack them.

Instead, they have Eleanor, and the gunslinger is a force to be reckoned with. Arthur had never had a prediction for small arms. In his eyes, they required a patience he did not have. He preferred weapons with a little more kick to them—had it been practical, he’d have brought his minigun rather than the poor excuse for a laser rifle he carried now—and he’d rather attack with brute force than careful precision. Even if he had left the Final Judgement back at the Castle, deeming it an inappropriate weapon for what is meant to be a stealth mission, 

But damn, if Eleanor doesn’t make him reconsider his stance.

She doesn’t fight like a soldier, picking off targets one by one depending on the amount of threat they pose to her safety at any given moment. Instead, she goes for whoever she can see, planting bullets between the eyes of those who dare to even peek out from behind cover for a second. She wastes no ammunition, and when the raiders start to jeer at her in an attempt to make her seem like less of a threat, she does nothing but grit her teeth, and ignore them. Her attacks are crude, inelegant, but effective. Does it matter if she kills a whole crowd of people in one fell swoop, so long as they all die?

They meet little resistance after the first group of raiders. All other threats are either dead, or had been scared off by the massacre that they had witnessed. It’s easy to forget that Eleanor is one of the most feared people in the Commonwealth for a reason. But then he’d take one look at the trail of blood she leaves behind in her wake, and remember.

She guides them through the back alleys, and ruined streets until at last, they come before a building with a weathered front of crumbling red brick. The green paint on the door is peeling, damaged by the centuries, but the lock on it is a bright, polished silver—undamaged, and new. Eleanor glances back at her two companions, hand resting on the door. “Time to see if Deacon came through,” she says, pushing the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW you posted the draft of the previous chapter instead of the final version :/ I mean, it wasn't all that different. The ending was just a little different, and was more of a set up for the mood™ for this plot arc. It's all fixed now, if you want to go back and give it a look. Also! This chapter through to Chapter Fifty were all written on Google Docs so uhhhh I apologise. I could go back and rewrite them, but like... effort. I'll edit this all when I'm done... eventually... Might take me a couple years, but uhh, it'll happen.


	48. Chapter Forty Eight

The catacombs beneath Old North Church are emptier than he had expected them to be, but skulls still jeer at Arthur as he makes his way through the winding tunnels. Their empty eyes seek to follow him, a smile haunting their lipless mouths. He isn’t one to get to unnerved easily, but there’s something about the forgotten skeletons of people centuries older than he that makes him uneasy. He finds himself jumping at every noise, finger hovering over the trigger of his gun.

Eleanor hide her wariness better than he does, but even he can tell that she’s nervous. Even if she had insisted that they could trust Deacon’s information, a part of her doubts the words of a man who is in an organisation that had tried to kill her on more than one occasion. She tries to see the good in everyone, he notes, thinking back to earlier, and how she’d let raiders flee the battle without pursuing them. A soldier would have shot them in the backs, but she’s always been a better woman than a soldier.

As jumpy as they all are, though, they have nothing to worry about. There are no traps, no sign that anyone is even expecting them, save for the countless doors they pass through, locks just happening to be on the floor. Deacon seems determined to make this as easy as possible for them in an attempt to save his brothers and sisters in arms. He is scared of what she can do, and he should be. Eleanor isn’t the strongest fighter in the Commonwealth, but she’s stubborn as hell, and refuses to stop fighting until she’s dead, or there’s nothing left to fight for.

Her holotags glow in the dim light as Eleanor suddenly stops, leaning against a crumbling wall for support. They’re shinier than her previous set, newer and undamaged. Even in the dark, the embossed RY-428P is visible, her new identification number not worn down by her habit of absentmindedly toying with the tags. They bounce against her chest as her breath comes in short, shallow gasps, and Arthur notices that her eyes are scrunched tight as he takes several, cautious steps towards her.

Danse takes one look at her, and steps around the corner, out of sight, but not out of earshot.

“Ellie,” Arthur murmurs, cautiously placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinches under his touch, startled, before her eyes snap open and she realises who he is. Eleanor relaxes, but not by much, wound as tight as a coiled spring under pressure.

She doesn’t quite shove him away as much as she shakes him off, shaking her head as she takes a step back. “I’m fine,” she says.

I know you’re lying, he wants to say. I know the truth. I know that our support does not make what comes next any easier, but one day, I will make the world a safe place, so our child will never need know violence. This I promise you.

“I’m fine,” Eleanor repeats, but even she sounds like she doesn’t believe what she’s saying. She’s still shaking, still struggling to catch her breath. “We’re close now. Just one more door.”

He reaches out for her in an attempt to—

In an attempt to what? She refuses to let him see her as weak, preferring to cry alone than risk jeopardizing the image of a picture-perfect leader she has created for herself. Only those closest to her know that it’s all just a facade, and even fewer have managed to catch glimpses through the cracks in the surface of her composure.

_“Was it worth it to you, Shaun?” He had never heard someone sound so hollow, and when he looked at her, he might as well have been staring into the eyes of a dead woman. No a single flicker of life danced behind emerald irises. It had been put out—extinguished by the grief tearing her apart from the inside. “Was this worth it? Is this what you wanted?”_

_“I don’t know.” Hands curled into fists—defensive, and unrightfully so—and a flash of anger behind eyes too brown to be just like his mother’s, but far too similar to be anyone but her son. He wasn’t her son. Not after what he had done to her. Not after everything he had become. “I had questions. I needed you to answer them. Would the Commonwealth corrupt you, as it has everything else? Would you even survive? Would you even look for the son you had lost?”_

_Silence, and it was heavier than the weight of the world. Eyes scrunched tight as she fought tears that she would soon shed—she couldn’t appear weak, not even in front him, not even here, where no one else would know. “I would have gone to the ends of the Earth to find you,” she said._

“You’re not fine,” Arthur insists sharply, stepping in front of her in an attempt to cut her off. “Stop lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I respect you enough to tell you the truth when you ask for it,” he murmurs, pain visibly flashing across her features as he reminds her of the night after Bunker Hill, when they’d sat apart from the festivities to mourn all that they had sacrificed to be good leaders.

 _Almost questions to almost answers,_ he remembers. _But almost isn’t good enough. Not for those of us who have others relying on our victories. We have to be perfect, have to be flawless. Almost success is a failure. Almost answers are not answers. And almost perfect..._

_Almost perfect isn’t perfect enough for people like us._

Eleanor looks down at her feet, staring at the ground for a long moment before meeting his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” she says eventually, and one small change in her words makes all the difference.

 _“I’m not fine,”_ she says now, even if the words are unspoken. _“I’m not fine, but I will be, and I do not have the luxury of waiting until ‘will’ becomes ‘am.’”_

Every part of him weighs as much as lead, but somehow, he finds himself stepping out of her way, not even glancing at Danse as the Minutemen Captain rushes to catch up with his General. True enough, though, only one more door stands between them and the Railroad’s headquarters. Eleanor places her hands on the solid metal, Danse reaching for his rifle, but with a shake of her head, his hands drop to his side. Even if it puts her safety at risk, she will always attempt peace before she tries violence, and neither he, nor Danse dare to ask her to do anything else.

They both know that asking her to would only start a fight that no one would win.

She hesitates, but then pushes the door open. She hasn’t even stepped through the doorway when he hears the click of a .44 pistol being loaded. Desdemona’s hazel eyes burn with unbridled fury as they settle on the intruders, and Arthur knows if their death wouldn’t provoke an outright war, she’d have put bullets in their heads without question.

But the leader of the Railroad isn’t a fighter. Desdemona is a spy, and her skills lie in fighting from the shadows. Neither she, nor the Railroad would survive a bloody, brutal assault against them. The only chance she had at eliminating her enemies had relied upon taking them by surprise, and wiping them out before they had a chance to fight back, but now they’ve taken the fight to her.

And any power she had held over them had been thrown out the window.

“General Ridley,” she spits through gritted teeth, lower lip curled in disgust, but there’s a undeniable sadness in her voice that she cannot hide. She had been a bright-eyed young woman with dreams of changing the world, once, and now she’s holding a gun to the heads of a former friend, knowing that only one of them will walk away alive. “I’d say I’m surprised to see you, but...”

“But we both know that this is the only way this could have ended,” Eleanor finishes. She doesn’t have Desdemona’s sadness. She is equally wistful, no doubt thinking of all the other ways their story could have concluded, but Desdemona had crossed a line—she had gone too far, and Eleanor’s mercy no longer extends to her. There are certain things that not even Eleanor can forgive. “I think we need to talk. You owe me that much.”

Desdemona’s finger twitches, hovering just above the trigger of her pistol, but she lowers the gun with little more than a hesitant glance at the two men standing by Eleanor’s side—Arthur notes that she does not holster it, nor does she put the safety on, still ready to fire upon the intruders should the need arise. She jerks her head to the main area of the Railroad’s headquarters where agents rush about the room, preparing for the planned assault on the Castle later that night. The room falls silent as their eyes fall upon the Elder and the General, stilling as they realise their presence renders their plans utterly irrelevant.

With two bullets, and a third for Danse, they could end their feud right here, and right now. But would they make martyrs of them? The Elder, and the General, pregnant with his child. Killing them would only ensure that the Railroad wouldn’t survive long enough to see the sun rise over the horizon.

With her pistol still in hand, Desdemona gestures to a chair in the centre of the room, but no one steps towards it. Danse clasps his hands behind his back, fingers gripping onto his wrist so tightly that Arthur knows he’s trying to keep himself from assaulting Desdemona, and thereby sentencing them to death. Eleanor is a little more relaxed, but no less tense. Her shoulders are pushed back, head raised high, and her eyes never once look away from Desdemona’s—she is nothing but intimidating, and even if she is unarmed, he is more frightened of her than he is of Desdemona.

“How did you find out?” Desdemona asks, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

“I told her.” Arthur does not know Deacon well enough to comment on his character. He seems like a liar, and a damn good one at that; he is precisely what Desdemona would be if she fought alongside her men rather than hiding in the catacombs of Boston. But he does know, with absolute certainty, that Deacon has enough nerve to make Ashley seem pale by comparison. The Lone Wanderer is stupidly brave, and it has got her in trouble on more than occasion. Deacon, however, is clever, and that makes him almost as dangerous as Desdemona.

Somewhere in the background, someone mutters, “Oh, shit,” earning a hiss of hushes from the other agents.

“Deacon.” Desdemona doesn’t sound surprised, but pain flits through her hazel irises at his betrayal.

The spy flashes her a smile, and it’s all teeth, none of it real. It’s just an act, but then again, he’s a spy, and they never should have expected anything else. “Hey, Dez,” he says, a little too cheerily. Desdemona can’t even bring herself to look at him, and it makes his smile falter. “I’m sorry, if that helps. But you went too far. I couldn’t let you do that to Wanda.”

“What was your plan, Desdemona?” Eleanor asks in a voice barely above a whisper, and somehow, it’s still as cold as ice. “Were you planning to take us by surprise? Kill us while we slept, and claim whatever was left as yours? I have a duty to my people. I can’t let you destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for.”

“And I have a duty to mine,” Desdemona shoots back, glancing about the room for another agent to step forward to side with her, but everyone, and everything, is taciturn. No one dares move, and it’s as though the entire room is collectively holding its breath as it waits to see how this will play out, and who will emerge from the fire alive. “Had you not sided with the Brotherhood, perhaps we could have seen peace between us.”

“This isn’t about the Brotherhood,” Arthur says, starting to understand why Danse had needed to physically restrain himself in order to keep from attacking Desdemona. “This is about you, and what you tried to do to our people.”

“Our people?” she repeats, snarling. “The Minutemen aren’t yours, Elder. They’re everything your Brotherhood couldn’t be. You excommunicated a high ranking officer because he was a synth.” Her gaze darts to Danse before meeting Arthur’s eyes once again. “And here he is, wearing the Minutemen’s flag on his arm, and owing his allegiance to the woman next to him. Your soldiers won’t even look at him. You don’t get to say that your people are one, and the same.”

“We’re changing.”

“Haven’t seen any sign of that.”

“Change,” he says, “happens slowly.”

“Yes, it does, most times at least. Most times, change is nothing more than a smouldering pile of embers, slowly eating away at obstacles. But this world is not kind to those of us who take our time, so if you want to start a fire, stop fanning the coals, and pour some gasoline out for those who didn’t make it this far, light a match, and throw it on the fucking thing.”

“Enough,” Eleanor says, hands in her pockets, “I did not come here to debate politics with you, Desdemona.”

“No, you didn’t. You, with the help of a man I foolishly trusted, and with my sworn enemy accompanying you, came to kill me.”

“Doesn’t have to end like that,” says Danse. “No one has to die today.”

She glances at the synth out of the corner of her eyes, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping her. “God, I wish I was still as hopeful as you. I’ve been doing this too long, kid. Never ends any other way. So, tell me, General, what are your plans with the Railroad once I’m, ah, disposed of?”

Eleanor finally looks away from Desdemona, her eyes settling on Deacon who still stands several feet behind the leader of the Railroad. “I’m not you, Desdemona. They’ll live, as long as they meet a few conditions first.”

Desdemona snorts. “You’re kinder than I ever was. I’d have killed them all if I was in your shoes.”

“I’m not you,” she says. “I’m not you, and I never will be. I will not fault them for following a leader who ended up losing her way.”

“I knew when Deacon vouched for you that I shouldn’t have trusted him. Or you.” A wicked grin finds its way onto Desdemona’s lips. “I suppose it’s a damn good thing that I’m the one holding a gun, and you’re surrounded by people who swore their loyalty to me.”

“It doesn’t matter if they swore to be loyal to you, if they know that this is wrong,” says Arthur. “You were planning to kill civilians, innocents, all in an attempt to destroy the Minutemen so you had one less problem to worry about when you made a move against the Brotherhood. You swore to protect the people of the Commonwealth, and here you are, posing just as much of a threat to them as the Institute.”

“How dare you compare me to them?” she snarls. “I was trying to save them from you, and your tyranny.”

“I could say the same about you,” says Eleanor, and when she removes her hands from behind her back, she has her 10mm in hand. Her grip is steady, and she does not waver. She has killed enough people, but there is little she would not do to save the lives of those she had sworn to protect.

Desdemona laughs, but the sound is weak, and shaky, and Arthur catches her swallowing, as though she can force her nervousness down into the pit of her stomach. “Are you going to shoot me, General?” she asks hoarsely. “Right here? Surrounded by all my men? You won’t make it out of here alive.”

“Then it’s a damn good thing,” says Deacon, “that they’re no longer yours. We followed you to help synths, Dez. Not kill people. No. We won’t be a part of this.”

Desdemona closes her eyes, letting out a trembling breath as she drops to her knees. Without her men by her side, she is outnumbered three to one—four, should Deacon join them. This is the end of the line for the Railroad as they know it, and this is where Desdemona’s reign ends. “I did what I thought was best,” she whispers. “For them. For all of us.”

“I know,” says Eleanor, “but that doesn’t make it right.”

She laughs again, and it’s just as bitter as before. The gun slips from her grip, clattering against the brick floor. “I know you,” she says. “You won’t shoot an unarmed woman.”

“I won’t shoot you at all,” Eleanor says, lowering her gun. “Not if I can help it. The Railroad can stay, under new guidance, under new leadership. Synths will still be protected, but they will not be an excuse for humans to claim that they’re superior than those who don’t help. No more mind wiping. No more running. You want to pour gasoline on the fire? Fine, but I’ll be damned if I don’t watch the world burn. Get out of here. If I ever see you, if I ever hear of you again...”

Desdemona opens her eyes, frowning. “You’re just going to let me go? If you were on your knees, I would have killed you.”

“I’m not you,” she says.

The leader of the Railroad looks to him. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” Arthur growls, stepping towards her. “Even if I want to. You don’t deserve the honour of becoming a martyr, but if you ever dare to try to harm my family again, death will seem like a blessing compared to what I’ll do to you.”

Desdemona nods, getting to her feet. “I won’t thank you for sparing me, and I won’t apologise.”

“I don’t want your gratitude, and I most certainly don’t want your fucking apology,” Eleanor spits. “I don’t want anything you can offer me. You almost took everything away from me, and the only reason you’re still alive is because you don’t deserve to get off that easily. You wanted to take everything from me, so I’m taking everything from you. Danse will see you out. I suggest you get as far away from here as soon as possible, and if you ever even so much as breathe Minutemen or Brotherhood air, you will be shot down on sight.”

Desdemona ducks her head, casting a pained glance at the men and women she had fought alongside as Danse grabs her by her shoulder. “I’ll contact the vertibird,” Danse mutters, grabbing Eleanor’s portable radio, and hauling Desdeomna out of the church. No sooner than she is out of sight does Eleanor let out a breath of relief, shoulders sagging.

“If any of you wish to leave,” Eleanor says, looking out over the Railroad, “I suggest you do so now. You will not meet any resistance so long as you do not attempt to retaliate against us.” No one moves an inch. “In which case,” she continues, hands behind her back, “report to Deacon for your next orders. Dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Hahahaha I want to punch Desdemona in the face sometimes~~ Wow, we're like... almost in the final act. Three more chapters and we're officially going to war with the Institute. Whoo boy. That's wild. I've been working on this for what? A couple of months? ~~I hate how long this is, seeing as it started as a one shot. Why do all my one shots end up as 150k novels? Why am I like this?~~
> 
> Also, everyone reading this (and especially those leaving comments), I love you all so much <3 Thank you for supporting me on a thing I literally wrote on a drunken whim one night, it means a lot. ~~Oh yeah, did I mention that I was pretty much plastered when I wrote the first five chapters? Because I was. I edited them sober, of course. Hemingway would have been proud.~~


	49. Chapter Forty Nine

“You know, for someone who just successfully staged a coup, you’re looking awfully sour, Wanda.” Deacon doesn’t even acknowledge Arthur’s presence, slinging his arms around Eleanor’s shoulders. He has a toothpick between his teeth, chewing on the wood absentmindedly. Behind the dark lenses of his glasses, his blue eyes dart to a dark skinned woman with grey hair behind Arthur. “It’s a new day for the Railroad. A new dawn. Suppose I’ll have to choose a new name. ‘Deacon’ isn’t a very intimidating name for the new leader of the Railroad. I’m thinking Levi.”

“Because Levi’s that much more intimidating than Deacon,” Arthur mutters.

“Hey now, it’s the history behind the name that matters more than the name itself, right, Wanda?” Deacon says, looking to Eleanor but she doesn’t respond, letting out a heavy sigh in way of an answer. “Should’ve named you Roosevelt rather than Wanderer. Would’ve allowed us to give Charmer your name, too.”

“It needn’t have come to this in the first place,” mutters Eleanor. “I shouldn’t have needed to throw a coup.”

“Dez went too far,” says Deacon. “She needed to be stopped. You couldn’t let her get away with destroying the Minutemen, now could you?”

“Perhaps,” is all Eleanor says, pushing herself away from Deacon so his arm drops back down to his side. She doesn’t look back at the newly appointed leader of the Railroad as she walks away, beelining for a concerned-looking Danse as he steps into the room.

“I couldn’t contact the vertibird,” he says. “Complete, and total radio silence. Nothing but static.”

Eleanor pales. “You don’t think someone happened to them, did you? Radio Freedom’s supposed to operate all day, and all night. It’s not like them to go silent.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” says Danse. “We weren’t followed. The Institute doesn’t know that we’re away from home. It’s nothing, I imagine. Repairs, maybe?”

“Weren’t followed by a Courser, you mean?” a dark-skinned man butts into their conversation, a pair of modified welding goggles perched atop his head. “What about the birds?”

“Not now, Tom,” sighs Deacon. He doesn’t even have to look behind him to know who’s standing there, which is nothing but a poor indication of Tom’s outlandish behaviour. “We all, uh, appreciate your theories, but this isn’t the time.”

Eleanor ignores Deacon entirely, her brows furrowing as she looks to Tom. “What about the birds?”

“Wanda,” groans Deacon.

“Y’know, man,” Tom says, frowning. “The birds. Wings. Feathers. Beaks.”

“We know what birds are.” Arthur holds his head in the palm of his hand, sighing. Perhaps Deacon was right in cutting him off before he could start. “She means why are you talking about the birds?”

“Chill, man,” Tom drags out in a way that does nothing but get on Arthur’s nerves. He is chill. He is totally chill. He is completely chill. He is the chillest person in the room. He is— “They’re not real, y’know. They’re spies. For the Institute.”

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur growls, turning to leave, but Eleanor catches him by the arm, keeping him from taking more than several steps away from Tom. “Eleanor.”

Eleanor doesn’t hear him, or if she does, she makes no indication of actually hearing him. “Spies?” she repeats, and she seems genuinely interested, as though Tom’s words aren’t the ravings of a madman.

“They call ‘em Watchers. Synth birds, with little cameras in their eyes. Everything they see is streamed back to the Institute. You went there, didn’t you? To the Institute?”

Eleanor pales, letting go of her grip on Arthur’s arm as she starts towards the door.

“Eleanor,” says Arthur, chasing after her. “You don’t believe him, do you?” She doesn’t stop to listen to him, and he’s forced to step between her and the exit just to get her to look him in the eyes. “Ellie.”

“I don’t know,” she says, unable to hide her nervousness. “I don’t normally believe half of what Tom says, but...”

“But?”

“Justin Ayo, the head of the Institute’s synth retention bureau, was talking to Shaun about the Watchers north of Concord acting up. It struck me as odd then, but if what Tom is saying is true, and I suspect it is, seeing as the Institute’s more than capable of creating synth animals...”

“What’s north of Concord?” he asks.

Pain flashes through Eleanor’s irises. “Sanctuary. Vault 111. Nate’s grave. Things I know Shaun’s been watching since I left the Vault. Places that are important enough that a malfunction would need to be reported to the director rather than just fixed on the down-low.” She curses under her breath. “If Shaun laid a single finger on the Minutemen, I swear to fucking God—” She tries to push past Arthur, heading for the door again. “Arthur. Move.”

“If the Institute is planning anything, the safest place for you right now is where they aren’t, and that’s here.”

“I do not need to be protected,” she snaps but something about her tone lets him know that she isn’t nearly as angry as she appears to be. She’s stressed, and she’s worried, and her plate is already full enough without needing the Institute to add to it. She’s quiet for a long moment, and then slowly looks up at Arthur. “I have to know.”

He doesn’t try to stop her this time, following in silence as she heads aboveground. Every corner she rounds, she almost walks into, so single-minded in her focus that she scarcely notices any obstacles between her and her goal. She climbs up the bell tower of the church, stumbling over the steps.

But it’s not like her hurrying matters. He can smell it in the air before he can even see it—acrid, and heavy, leaving a thick cloying taste on his tongue that makes him grimace--and  he knows that it’s too late.

On the horizon, just south of the Church, the sky glows orange with fire.

There aren’t any words he can say that would make this any better. How could there be? They’re watching the Castle burn, standing too far away to do anything but stare at the plumes of smoke billow into the night sky in complete silence. Eleanor’s legacy is turning to ash before their very eyes, and they can’t do anything to stop it.

“Eleanor—” begins Arthur, not knowing how he intends on finishing his sentence, but it’s a moot point anyway. She holds up a finger, fiddling with the radio frequencies on her Pip-Boy.

“Radio Freedom, this is General Ridley. Report status, over,” she says, but she’s met with nothing but the crackle of static. Her breath hitches in her throat. “Radio Freedom,” she tried again, holding back tears, “report status, over.”

And again, she is met with static.

“Radio Freedom—” she starts, breaking off as a sob finally escapes her. She braces herself against the railing of the bell tower, gripping onto the rotting wood as though it’s her lifeline. He half fears that the wood will give out under her weight, and she’ll be sent tumbling to the ground below.

Arthur doesn’t ask for her permission, knowing that she is in no place to be the leader the Commonwealth needs her to be. Not right now. Still, he leans over, changing the frequencies of her Pip-Boy. “This is Elder Maxson, registration number 001E. Requesting immediate extraction from these coordinates.” 

“Affirmative,” comes Kells’ voice from Eleanor’s Pip-Boy. “A vertibird will be at your location in five.”

They lapse into silence, the bell tower quiet save for Eleanor’s choked sobs. Tears prick at her eyes, and yet, she sheds none of them, her anger greater than anything else she could be feeling.

“I’d rather he have killed me,” she growls after a long moment, turning on her heel to punch a rotting wooden support. It doesn’t give, but Arthur does start to worry that the entire roof will collapse on top of them at any moment.

He presses his lips together, arms folded across his chest. She doesn’t need his sympathy. Not now. They can mourn later. Right now, they need to get to the Castle as fast as they can, and assess the damage the Institute caused. “Who?”

“Who do you fucking think?” she spits, and even though he knows her anger isn’t directed at him, he winces regardless. She slumps over, regret passing over her features. “Sorry.”

He ignores the outburst entirely. “Shaun?” he guesses.

“He doesn’t want me dead,” Eleanor mutters. “Some part of him still hopes we can be a family again. He wants the Minutemen out of the picture, but me... He wants me subjugated. At the will of the Institute. It’s not going to happen. If he thinks I can forgive him now, after this... If a single person is dead because of him, I’m going to—”

“Eleanor, stop,” he says, grabbing her by her shoulders in an attempt to force her to look at him. “Listen to yourself. This isn’t the answer. This isn’t you. You’re blinded by your anger. You’re merciful—”

“Fuck mercy,” she snarls. “He doesn’t deserve ‘mercy.’”

He had wondered, once, just how far Eleanor could be pushed before she broke, how much she was willing to put up with before she gave up, but she is stubborn, and he had not expected to ever see the day that she would give up.

But this...

Shaun had gone too far. He had done more than attack the Minutemen. He had attacked her family, and there is no greater sin he could have committed. There is nothing he can do now that would redeem himself in her eyes.

“The Minutemen are strong,” says Arthur, quietly. “You taught them to be. I’m sure they’re fine, and if they aren’t...” Eleanor grimaces at the thought. “If they aren’t, I have no doubts that they put up one hell of a fight. They’d follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

She looks at him funny, as though he had grown another head. “You have so much faith in me,” she murmurs. “I can’t understand why. My accomplishments pale in comparison to yours.”

He snorts. “It took me years to accomplish what I have with the Brotherhood. My entire childhood was spent teaching me to lead. You? You’re a lawyer who was in the wrong place at the right time, who managed to defy all odds and create an empire within a few months. If you can do this in less than a year of waking up in an unfamiliar world...” He meets her eyes. Despite her anger, something bright, something hopeful flickers behind her peridot irises. “Imagine what you could do in three, four years’ time.”

A small laugh escapes her, bubbling from her lips.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“I know,” she says with a faint smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Everything is just... a lot right now.”

“The Minutemen will be fine,” Arthur assures, burying his nose in her hair. “You taught them well.”

Just then, Kells’ vertibird becomes visible on the horizon, landing on the streets just outside the church, blades whirring and cutting through the silence of the night. The air is still heavy with smoke, the skyline still aflame, but they won’t let Shaun tear them down. They’re stronger than he is, and more resilient too. A nuclear war couldn’t destroy Eleanor.

And a fire, no matter how large, no matter how hot, can’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a _nerd_ , and this entire final act is nothing short of heavy on the symbolism, I've been trying to incorporate a bit more American history into this fic. Which is uhh... difficult, seeing as I've only ever studied world history, and not American history. (I don't even have an excuse. I'm very close to the Canadian/American border, so realistically, a lot of American history affected Canadian history, but I... don't even know a lot of Canadian history. Ask me about art history, and I can go on for _hours._ )
> 
> I digress. Deacon's "Levi" comment is a direct reference to Levi Coffin, the supposed "president" of the Underground Railroad who helped an estimated 3000 slaves escape. A lot of his views on what he did mirror my interpretation of Deacon, including some spoiler-y things I don't want to give away. I figured I might as well go all in on this symbolism, seeing as Eleanor already has quite a few parallels with Washington, and anyone who's see/listen to Hamilton knows about the similarities between Maxson and Arthur.
> 
> See, this is why I shouldn't be allowed to write. So much unnecessary symbolism. I mean, Eleanor was simultaneously named after Elaine of Corbenic from Arthurian legends, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Eleanor of Aquitaine. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It be like that sometimes, I guess.


	50. Chapter Fifty

Arthur almost chokes on the smoke that still hangs in the air, even if the fires had been extinguished shortly before he and Eleanor had arrived. Ash swirls through the night sky, and he can still feel the heat of the dead fires, the nape of his neck already slick with sweat. Somewhere, a child wails for their mother.

Eleanor has gone white, her hands curled into fists by her side. She’s shaking with the effort of trying to remain composed. Even if she can’t lead right now, she has to maintain appearances. The Minutemen can’t afford to see her weak. Not now.

“General! Elder!” a very exhausted Preston Garvey shouts over the commotion of settlers looking for their lost family members, and the Minutemen’s attempts to put out the last of the fires. He pushes his way through the crowds, looking strangely bare without his signature, wide-brim hat. At the sight of him, Eleanor relaxes somewhat, glad to see that her second is still alive. “We tried to contact you, but you were underground, and then the radio was struck—”

“Slow down, Lieutenant General,” Arthur instructs. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Garvey blinks, surprised that he’s being ordered by the Elder of the Brotherhood rather than his General. He doesn’t attempt to dispute Arthur’s authority. “The Institute infiltrated the settlers taking refuge,” he says, clearly fighting the urge to rush all his words out at once. “One of them, a General 3 we later discovered, pulled a gun on Sturges. Shot him, but missed. Bullet clipped his shoulder. He’ll live.”

“A small mercy,” mutters Eleanor.

“Jun Long, ah, put a bullet between its eyes,” continues Garvey. “Kid’s shaken, and Marcy’s beyond angry with him, but he’ll be fine too. While we were dealing with that though, the Institute attacked. Came over the walls in waves. We didn’t have time to arm ourselves.”

“What are the casualties?” Arthur asks.

“Twenty injured, three in critical and being tended to by Curie.”

“And fatalities?” Arthur frowns, noting how the Minuteman had skirted around answering that part of his question.

“None.”

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “None?” he repeats, looking at the chaos around them. How are there no dead? The Castle’s walls are scorched black; Eleanor’s carefully crafted garden is nothing but ash.

“No one died,” Garvey reaffirms. “Just injured. Don’t know where we’d be without Garcia. Probably worse off.”

Eleanor perks up at that, raising a brow. “Garcia?”

“Told him not to call me that, but he doesn’t listen very well.” Arthur would recognise that voice anywhere, but he’s used to hearing it with a little more derision and condescension in it. Ashley stands behind them in a suit of beat up, and ash-stained T-50 power armour. He supposed Owyn Lyons had made her a knight, even if she had formally refused to accept the position. Her decision to help the Brotherhood, she had said, was not borne out of a belief in the Brotherhood’s cause. It had been to help Sarah. It had only ever been about Sarah.

“Ashley,” Arthur says, greeting her with a nod.

“Maxson,” she returns, but she cracks a small, if not exhausted smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Why are you here?” he asks, brows knitted.

“Pipes... got into an altercation with some folk back at Diamond City because of something she published. She thought she’d be safer here. I caught wind that the Institute was planning something big, and I happened to be listening to Radio Freedom when they sent out the call for the General. Right place, right time.” She can’t really shrug in her power armour, but she attempts to anyway. “Just luck, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Eleanor manages to croak out, voice hoarse, “we’re real lucky.”

Ashley expression sours. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, but it could have been worse.”

“Synths do not fail more than once.” Eleanor has lost all sense of control and composure, and though she is not angry with the Lone Wanderer, Ashley has inadvertently found herself facing the brunt of Eleanor’s frustration. “They never make the same mistake twice. They will attack again, and they will not stop until the Minutemen, and the Castle are nothing but stains on the Earth, don’t you understand that? As long as we’re standing in their way, as long as I am not on Shaun’s side, the Institute doesn’t give a single fuck about any of us.”

“Then maybe,” an unknown voice says from the crowd, “we should just give you to them.”

Eleanor freezes, not even trying to look for the person who had said that. She just locks up, nails digging into the palm of her hand with enough pressure that she leaves small bruises in the shape of crescents. She lets out a shaky breath, eyes closed as she holds back the urge to cry. “Yeah,” she says tightly. “Maybe you should.”

Arthur half expects her to continue with a comment on how she’s the last hope they have against the Institute, on how she’s the only thing keeping the Minutemen together, but it never comes. She says nothing about what they have to do next, say nothing about how they have to be strong. Instead, she just looks to Garvey, swallowing hard.

“Take inventory,” she mutters, so quiet they can barely hear her. “Start on repairs. You can take the caps out of my stash. You know the combination to my safe.”

“Where are you going?” asks Garvey as she turns to head back to the vertibird they’d taken to the Castle.

“Home. To the Prydwen,” she says, not stopping to look at him as she speaks. “I have a war to plan.”

Ashley watches her leave, snorting as soon as the blonde-haired General is out of earshot. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you getting bossed around, Maxson,” she says in what he hopes is a joking tone. He can never quite tell with her. “Much less by someone who isn’t Brotherhood.”

“General Ridley is technically a paladin,” Arthur says, knowing he only has a few minutes before Eleanor takes the vertibird back to the Prydwen without him. Not that Kells wouldn’t send another to pick him up. “And she’s the mother of my child.”

Ashley blinks. “I... Wow. Congratulations. Thought she was showing, but I don’t know her well enough to comment on it. Didn’t expect you to really be a paternal type.”

“Don’t want kids yourself?”

“Dunno. It’s, ah, not exactly biologically likely to happen,” she says, a slight flush to her olive coloured cheeks. It’s then that Garvey decides to leave them alone with a stammered, poor attempt at an excuse.

“Piper seems...” He isn’t very good at making small talk. “Nice.”

She snorts. “Yeah, I... Yeah. Yeah, she’s nice. Met her when she almost got into a fight in just outside the noodle stand in Diamond City. The Mayor tried to have her arrested—again—for accusing him of being a synth. McDonough shut up real fast when he realised who I was, though. Did you know I’m still technically under the Brotherhood’s protection? Intimidated the shit out of him. I guess no one ever repealed Sarah’s decision to do that.”

“It was repealed upon her death at the behest of the Council,” he mutters. “I reinstated it.”

“Oh. I suppose I should thank you then.”

“Hardly any need. Sarah made it very clear that you will always have a place with the Brotherhood.”

“So you’ve said.” She looks off into the distance, sighing. “I should go. Pipes was hurt in the fire. Nothing bad, but she won’t be able to walk without crutches for a couple weeks, at least. I bet she’s already going stir crazy.”

He smiles.

“What?” Ashley almost snarls. Even if they’ve started to form a rather uneasy friendship based purely on the fact that Sarah would have hated to see the two people she cared about most in the world fight, they’re still not close enough for her to not distrust every word that comes out of his mouth. Or, in this case, every strange glance he shoots her way, though—in all fairness—in the past, either of those usually meant that she was in trouble. “Why’ve you got that look on your face?”

“Nothing,” he says, even if it’s a blatant lie. They don’t have the best history, but he’s glad that she’s happy. Piper’s a good woman, judging by what she writes in the Publick. Strong. Moral. Passionate. She’s a little too much like Ashley—which, admittedly, does make him rather wary—but the world needs more people like her. They need people who, rather than waiting for change to happen, go out and make those changes happen themselves. He can’t help but think that they’re truly in it now. People like them are not forgotten by history, even if they fail.

Ashley narrows her eyes ever-so-slightly, but elects to drop the subject. “You should probably return to your wife.”

“She isn’t my wife,” he mutters.

“Why not?” He doesn’t have an answer for her question, but she has known him for nearly half of his life, and knows what he wants to say. “You’re afraid.”

He snorts, the sound nothing but defensive. “I am not.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” she says. “You’ve got this sort of frown when you’re displeased, and you can never hide it.”

“Familiar with my displeasure, are you?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” she says. “You’re afraid that she’ll leave you, aren’t you? As your wife, the Elders will insist that she return with you to the Citadel. Maybe even back to Lost Hills once you become High Elder. You’d have to ask her to leave this all behind, and you can’t ask her to choose you over the Minutemen.”

“ _I,_ ” he repeats, growling, “am not afraid of her saying no.”

“I’m not saying that that’s a _bad_ thing, Maxson.” Ashley lets out a sigh, the hydraulics of her armour hissing as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Ten years ago, you would’ve hated someone for not sharing your views. Killed them even. Now, you accept the fact that she might very well love the Minutemen more than she loves you, and are willing to let her go if only to see her happy.”

He doesn’t want to admit that she’s right, but he can’t deny the truth of her words. He is young, inexperienced, and with every passing day, he wonders more and more if his morals are a result of his own experiences, or if the Brotherhood had force-fed him with their ideals all in an attempt to create the “perfect Maxson” they could use as a pawn. He’s an elder, but he’s just as much of a piece in the Elders’ game as everyone else is. The Brotherhood has, for better or for worse, shaped history, but it has not done so peacefully.

_“It is… better, for him to die by your hands than to die at the hands of anyone else.” He knew it was a request she would never willingly fulfil. She was like the warrior angels he had read about in religious texts from the Old World. She was a fighter, but only for what she believed to be right. He needed her to see that this would be better. This would be merciful. “You would be kind about it.”_

_Pain flashed through her eyes as her heart broke. How could he ask this of her? She didn’t know, and nor did he. She had trusted him, and he had betrayed her by asking her to sacrifice who was she was in order to appease his superiors. She wasn’t bound by his rules, wasn’t bound by anything but her own affections for him, and he had just tried to lock her in a cage, and had asked her to be happy about it._

_“Right,” Eleanor’s voice was angry, but he knew it was nothing more than an attempt to hide her grief, “because my hands aren’t covered in enough blood already.”_

 Eleanor is too good for him. Too good for any of them. Too good for a life of war.

“She would follow you to the ends of the Earth,” Ashley whispers after a moment’s pause. “She would give up everything just to see you smile.”

“You don’t know her. Not like I do.”

“No, you’re right, I don’t,” she says. “But I know the way she looks at you. It was the same way you looked at Sarah. Like there is nothing else in the room but you, like the whole world goes quiet when you speak. The Institute almost destroyed everything she had worked for today. They almost killed everyone she loved. And yet, that isn’t where her family is, and this isn’t where her family is either. It's on the Prydwen. With you. Don’t underestimate just how much she loves you. She’s not the kind of woman to say that she loves you a lot, not the kind to be loud in her affections, but she cares about you. That’s clear to anyone who takes even one look at her when you’re in the room.”

Arthur can’t meet Ashley’s eyes. He has loved few people in his life— _but he is still young, and that can still change_ —and so he can confidently say that Eleanor is one of them. Is it that obvious to others, though? Sometimes, he fears that she does not return his affections. She is quieter in her love, not using words to say what she can instead show. It’s the morning cups of coffee that are always on his bedside table, piping hot even if she had woken hours before he had. It’s the way she makes certain that her fingers brush his arm as they walk past each other, even if they don’t have time for hellos.

And she does not need to say _I love you_ for him to know that he is loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for dying in the past two weeks, I've uhh... hit a rut, for lack of a better term. Not with this fic, but just generally everything. I'm still updating this fic, I promise <3


	51. Chapter Fifty One

On paper, Arthur knows it looks like he hasn’t known Eleanor for a particularly long time.

It is only February, and he has officially—as of the clock striking twelve—known her for seven months. But it is difficult, he thinks to himself, to remember a time without her. She has spent nearly every waking minute since August helping the Brotherhood, or by Arthur’s side, her presence interrupted only by brief trips elsewhere. Is he a fool for caring for her so, when he hasn’t even known for a year? A smarter man would say yes, but Arthur is a clever man, not a smart one, and he cannot say.

It is still cold enough that soldiers are advised to bring winter gear with them when leaving the Prydwen, but Eleanor seems more than warm enough in nothing but a standard-issue Brotherhood blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she leans against the railing of the Prydwen’s forecastle.

“Take a wrong turn to the war room?” he tries to joke as he steps up alongside her. He doesn’t have to look at her to know that she’s been crying, but he knows she’d rather die of shame than for him to see her as weak.

“Suppose I must have,” she mutters, wiping away tears on the back of her hand. “Been a lot on my mind lately. Remembering the Prydwen’s layout wasn’t my biggest concern.”

Her attempt to deflect his concern is enough cause for worry, but she’s done this before, and he knows by now to let her take her time. He almost thinks it’s funny how he had received flak for being reserved with his own personal thoughts, having been taught from a young age that— _as a Maxson_ —he needed to keep a level head when his men could not, and here he is, consoling the woman he loves as she is more reserved than he ever will be.

It isn’t her fault. She had learned quickly that the Commonwealth is not kind to those who show any sign of weakness, and the Minutemen needed a fearless leader, not a grieving widow looking for her lost son. The Commonwealth didn’t care if she had never owned a gun of her own before waking up two hundred and ten years after she had gone under. That had been her problem to figure out, and figure it out she had. She had trained, and practiced, and with a little bit of luck, and a lot of patience, she had survived long enough to meet him.

But somewhere, along the way, she had lost the hope she inspires in those who follow her, and a hopeless leader is almost as bad as a weak one.

“Were I not,” Eleanor says after a long moment of silence, “responsible solely for my own health, rather than the health of another, I’m certain I would have given myself up to the Institute by now.”

“Martyrdom doesn’t seem like your style,” Arthur says.

“You don’t think I’m selfless enough?” _You don’t think I care so little about my own life, that I would be glad to die if my death meant something?_

Arthur ducks his head. “No, I don’t think you’re capable of creating something, and then trusting someone else to protect it in your stead. You are proud of your accomplishments, and rightly so.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’m a control freak.”

He can’t help but laugh. She isn’t entirely wrong, though he doesn’t know if he’d use that phrase to describe her. A control freak, he feels, is someone who wants to micromanage every situation. Eleanor, on the other hand, is incapable of sacrificing her control, no matter how small it is. It doesn’t matter what she controls, so long as she has some self-agency. She has been helpless too many times to submit to the whims of another.

Even when she gets on her knees for him, he knows that she’s the one in control. One word, and he would stop. One _look,_ and he would stop. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to. She is the one in control, and he will do anything she might ask him to. It is a controlled way for her to let go of her daily responsibilities without feeling utterly vulnerable.

And watching her break down like this is nothing but hard.

“Am I any better than Desdemona?” she asks, voice breaking, as though there is a possibility he would even consider saying _yes_. Desdemona had put her own wants before the needs of the Railroad— _even if Deacon rubs him the wrong way, he’s certain that he will do a better job than Desdemona ever could._ The fire had not been Eleanor’s fault. She can’t be the General every minute, and constantly be looking over her shoulder for the Institute.

Arthur lets out a heavy breath, reaching over to place a hand atop hers, fingers interlacing. “You aren’t her.”

“I could become her,” she says.

“No.” He doesn’t hesitate in his response. There isn’t any other answer. “You couldn’t.”

Eleanor snorts, the sound nothing but bitter and angry. “I wish I believed in myself half as much as you do,” she says. “It doesn’t help that I’m not doing this because I want to. I never wanted to lead the Minutemen, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice,” he argues. “You could have walked away. Anyone else would have, but you didn’t because you knew that they needed your help. And that’s what keeps you from becoming like Desdemona. You don’t do this for yourself. You never have. It wasn’t about self-righteousness. It was about doing what was right.”

She falls silent for a long moment, wringing her hands. Then, she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “When we first met, I was scared of you,” she admits. “I’m not scared of a lot of things, but I was scared of you. You were the picture perfect leader I never could be, I thought. Your men revere you. I didn’t expect you to be so…” She looks away, hair falling across her eyes like a curtain of individual gold strands.

“So…?”

“Kind,” she finishes with a resigned sigh. He knows why. She is merciful, but she isn’t always kind. “I didn’t expect you to be so kind. Months ago, you asked me when I fell in love with you. I told you it was when I hit Gunny, realising that I’d rather you be angry with me than dismissive, because that at least meant that you were paying attention to me, which in hindsight I realise was remarkably childish. I think, though, it was even sooner than that. You hadn’t even known me a week, and you told me that I shouldn’t have died in Nate’s stead. That I had a reason for being here, and this was it. It was the first time, I think, I had felt wanted in almost a year.”

He thinks about that night a lot. He had been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and even though he had known that this woman would be the death of him, he hadn’t cared. He would rather burn a thousand times over than live in a world without her in it. Even then, he could see that she was destined for great things, and he hadn’t been wrong. The Commonwealth’s fate rested in her hands.

“Hancock wanted you,” he says quietly. “He loved you. Still does.”

“I know,” she says, voice wavering. “But it’s as I said. There’s a million reasons he and I never would have worked out. I didn’t love him, but I could have. He never gave me the time to find out.”

“He was afraid.” These are not his secrets to spill, but she needs to know them, and even if Hancock doesn’t particularly like him, it’ll be easier to ask his forgiveness than his permission. “He knew his drug habits would rub off on you, and you would try to self-medicate with things worse than alcohol, and he knew that he would either have to watch you die, or watch you risk your life trying to become a ghoul, and he didn’t want to put you through that. He said you were worth too much to him.”

She swallows, unable to look at him. He knows that she is used to having to sacrifice her happiness for the well-being of others. She can’t do that any longer. Her life isn’t just her own. Not anymore. He knows it’s difficult for her to understand this, and it will take some time yet for her to truly understand that she has built a life for herself in the Commonwealth. She had lost everything when the bombs had dropped, and now, two hundred and ten years later, she’s starting to pick up the pieces. “What’s the point you’re trying to make?”

“My point is that you’re wanted,” he says. “You’ve always been wanted. What happened to you, with Shaun, with Nate, with your parents… None of that defines you, and none of this isn’t your fault. You’re doing the best you can with the hand you’ve been dealt, and everyone around you who matters knows that. Desdemona was defined by what she did. You are defined by who you are.”

Eleanor lets out a weak, breathy laugh, but he knows it’s just her attempt to hide the tears she does not want to shed. “It’s not hard to see why your men are so loyal to you when you say shit like that. I suppose there had to be a reason that they’d all willingly die for you, and I can’t say that I don’t see it. I daresay they don’t follow you because they believe in your cause so much as they believe in _you_.”

Somewhere in the distance, shots ring out, breaking the quiet. Even as the sun sets, the Commonwealth still fights. There will be no peace until they are victorious, or until they are dead. “So, General,” he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. After a moment’s pause, she reaches up to place her own hand atop his, gripping onto him like he’s the only thing keeping her from fading away. “I do believe we have a war to plan.”

And Eleanor…

Eleanor smiles. It’s sad, and she cannot hide her bitterness that this is what her life has come to, but it’ s a smile nonetheless. “Yes,” she says, “I do believe we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but it was kind of heavy, and dragging it out just made it... a lot.


	52. Chapter Fifty Two

The war room of the Prydwen isn’t particularly sophisticated, especially when compared to the Castle. It lacks the Old-World furniture that decorates the entirety of the Castle, which makes its inhabitants feel as though they are planning an attack against the British army. There isn’t room for such luxuries aboard the Prydwen—they’re practically sardines trapped in a tin in the sky—and so the ship’s “war room” is nothing but a converted storeroom.

Rather than ancient oak tables, they have crates full of supplies with a large piece of plywood haphazardly balanced atop it in an attempt to make a stable, even surface. Someone had set up gas lanterns in an attempt to balance out the single florescent lightbulb in the centre of the room, but the contrast of yellow and white light looks nothing but unprofessional.

But Eleanor doesn’t seem to notice.

War isn’t her domain, but negotiations and careful planning are. She’s a lawyer, not a tactician. Which, he supposes, is why the Castle is decorated is decorate like an old courthouse rather than a fortress.

The proctors lean against opposite walls, arms folded across their chests as they eye the man standing by Eleanor’s side. Arthur doesn’t know if he should say anything about it. It is fully within Eleanor’s right to bring a guest. Teagan, to no one’s surprise, is the first to break the silence.

“What’s it doing here?” he asks, looking to Arthur as though the Elder can provide an explanation for Eleanor’s decisions.

“ _He_ ,” the General stresses, eyes flashing, “is my guest, and you will respect him, Proctor.”

“Don’t forget your place, _Paladin_ ,” Teagan hisses back. “You can’t pick and choose which rank you wish to pull at the drop of a hat.”

And that’s when Danse coughs, drawing attention to his presence. His discomfort is written across his face, and it’s even clear in his posture. He shifts awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” he mutters.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Eleanor doesn’t even look at him, too busy glaring at Teagan. “You’re staying. That’s an order.”

“Elder Maxson—” starts Teagan in protest, falling silent when Arthur holds up a hand.

“That’s enough, Proctor,” he says. “Captain Danse is General Ridley’s guest, and you will treat him as such, regardless of your own opinions of him. Is that clear?”

He scowls. “Yes, sir,” he mutters.

Arthur clasps his hands behind his back. “Good. Before we begin: Proctor Ingram, what is the status of Liberty Prime?”

Ingram is the only person in the room who isn’t shooting looks at Danse. She’s kinder than the lot of them, and she knows what it’s like to be shunned by the Brotherhood for things she has no control over. “Armed and ready, sir,” she says. “Waiting for your command.”

“I thought we said we weren’t going to use Prime unless we could ensure he wouldn’t kill innocents,” says Eleanor, frowning.

“Dr Li is working on the last of the coding now,” Ingram says to her. “She’s testing for bugs. You’ve… made it very clear that we aren’t to use Prime unless she can rewrite his friend-foe algorithms.”

 She raises a brow. “I think it’s a valid request, no?”

“Hey now, I didn’t say that it wasn’t,” Ingram says, holding back a laugh. “She insists that she’ll have it done by the end of the week, but even then. We still need another plan of attack. The modifications… do lower his effectiveness. We still need a, uh, power source to accommodate for his upgrades, but I can speak with Ashley about procuring something. She’s already volunteered to help us.”

“She came to the Commonwealth to make her disapproval of Prime clear,” Arthur says, frown deepening. “

“And I believe we finally have a solution to that problem,” says Danse, leaning over the map of downtown Boston sprawled out across the makeshift table. He outlines a path that runs along the Charles River with his finger. “There’s a backdoor into the Institute—tunnels for an old cooling system.”

Quinlan arches a brow, readjusting his glasses. “You’ve considered that the Institute might have boarded it up, yes?” he says, wrinkling his nose. “It would only make sense that they would have. Security threat, and all.”

“Why would they?” Danse returns, a small smile on his lips. “It’s hooked up to an old nuclear reactor.”

“So?”

Arthur can almost see realisation dawn across Ingram’s features. “So,” she says in a low voice, “it’s as irradiated as the Glowing Sea. It’d kill any living creature who goes down there.”

“They’ve stationed a few Gen 2’s down there to eliminate any mutants or ferals that might find their way down there,” Danse continues, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Few sentient creatures would ever consider braving irradiated waters and synths, only to find themselves in the heart of irradiated territory.”

This is dangerous. This is _very_ dangerous. “It’s risky,” he says.

“So’s Prime,” counters Eleanor, leaning against an overturned crate. “Danse can lead a small group through the tunnels, and infiltrate the Institute, while the Brotherhood launches a frontal assault with Prime. Nothing like a massive ass robot to serve as a distraction. It should allow Danse and the others to slip into the Relay room, and transport an armed squadron inside. Prime can kick open the front doors, and let everyone in shortly thereafter.”

It’s still risky. Even if she’s thought this out. The Institute will see Prime coming a million miles away—it isn’t very subtle, after all. Their defences will be focused on deterring the towering robot, not checking that their back entrances are all secured. It might very well just work. He knows that the Institute is expecting them to attack outright. Subtlety and subterfuge had always been the Railroad’s specialty, not theirs, and they can use that to their advantage.

“And where,” he asks Eleanor, “do you intend on finding people who would sign up for what might very well be a suicide mission?”

Something dangerous shines in Eleanor’s eyes. “The Minutemen’s recruiting standards are, thankfully, quite different from yours.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we need a team of three soldiers who are either immune, or resistant to radiation. We already have a synth who will be invulnerable to rads with just one dose of Rad-Away—” Eleanor nods at Danse, “—and I do believe I could call in a favour or two with an old synth friend I know, and I’m certain Hancock would jump at a chance to stick it to the Institute.”

“You’re joking, right?” says Teagan. “You can’t put our lives in the hands of Valentine, Hancock, and Danse.”

“Once upon a time, you would have _gladly_ put your life in Danse’s hands,” she shoots back at him. “Don’t you forget that.”

“Trust me I haven’t,” he says, scowling.

Eleanor looks like she wants to hit him, but has the self-restraint to refrain from doing so. “Danse and Valentine,” she continues instead, her teeth gritted, “have the perfect cover. Two synths, returning to the Institute. This time, with the Mayor of Goodneighbour in tow, taking Hancock to go speak to Shaun. It’ll be enough to fool the Gen 1’s, and if they run into trouble… They’re all more than capable.”

“Captain Danse,” Arthur says quietly, James starting as he realises that Arthur’s speaking to him, and only him. The few times he has addressed his former brother-in-arms had largely been restricted to questioning Eleanor about him, but it feels like a lifetime since Danse had been exiled. It hasn’t even been three months. “What do you think?”

Danse shoots a brief glance at Eleanor before pushing his shoulders back, chin raising in pride. “General Ridley has never let me down before, sir. If we work together, I’m certain this plan would succeed.”

“And General,” he continues, “are you prepared to do this?”

 _This_ , he says, _like “this” doesn’t mean something else._

_Are you prepared to kill your only son?_

_Are you prepared to stain your hands once again, but this time with blood you cannot ever wash off? There is no going back from this. No mother should ever have to bury her child, and I will spare this monster for you if you cannot bring yourself to do this, because I cannot put a bullet between the eyes of a man who shares your blood._

_That duty, no matter how painful, must fall to you._

“Does it matter?” Eleanor asks quietly, and it’s like the rest of the room fades away. There is no one else here but her. No one else he can see. He can almost see her heart breaking. She had known that she would need to do since the moment she had uncovered Shaun’s identity, and for the past half year, since their confrontation with Shaun on the roof of the CIT ruins after the Battle of Bunker Hill, this had been the only way this could end.

  _“Whatever you do going forward, do not interfere with the Institute’s plans.”_

_A threat he returned with one of their own, even if Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to look her son in the eye without seeing the ghost of his father. “And if you interfere with ours we’ll kill you.”_

_Shaun tore his gaze away from his mother, a sad, pained smile upon his lips. They were heading towards the finale now. The final, great act that would see one of them go up in fire. “You, I could believe, but you, Mother? Could you kill your only child?”_

_She turned to look at him, but even then, her gaze was distant, and far away, as though she was staring at the physical manifestation of her past. “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”_

Eleanor deserves better. She is too good of a woman for the hand life has dealt her, but she has done the best she can with the cards she has. Even if she doesn’t have an ace up her sleeve, she has come further than anyone ever thought she would.

She looks down at the ground, letting out a sigh. “We can’t let the Institute get away with this,” she murmurs. “They pose a danger to everyone.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Arthur!” She’s almost yelling, but he knows that it isn’t out of anger. She is at her wit’s end, and it’s no one’s fault. He wonders just how much more she can sacrifice before she has nothing else left to give. Eleanor almost doubles over on herself as she wraps her arms around her waist. “Am I prepared to kill Shaun? Of course I’m fucking not! I spent two years looking for him, and now I have to kill him in order to protect myself, and everyone else I care about.”

Even if it’s true, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

She shouldn’t have to be the one to do this, but a part of him knows that she won’t let anyone do this for her. She has to see this through, even if it kills her. She’s damned if she does, and damned if she doesn’t. Shaun might be her responsibility, but…

No mother should ever have to kill her son.

No mother should ever have to _kill_ her son.

But they both know there isn’t any other choice.

Danse narrows his eyes, glaring at Arthur. The former Paladin is nothing but indignant, bristling. “That’s hardly fair,” he protests, far too moral for his own good. He knows that this is wrong, but he can’t see that they have no other choice. He can’t say that he doesn’t sympathise with him. “Since when did the Brotherhood—”

Arthur doesn’t need to hear the end of his sentence to understand his meaning. “This isn’t about the Brotherhood,” he murmurs, eyes s till locked with Eleanor’s. “This is about war.”

“She’s five months pregnant,” Danse says, his protests met with silence. It doesn’t deter him. “It’s hardly fair,” he insists.

Eleanor lets out a shuddering, shaky breath, gritting her teeth. “War isn’t fair. It never was, and it never will be. Sacrifices have to be made.”

“But not necessarily by you,” he says. “Let me—”

“ _No_.” She is resolute in her answer, refusing to even consider what he has to say. In her mind, just as it is in Arthur’s, there aren’t any other options. She still feels responsible for the son she did not raise. Arthur knows that there are few things that are more important to her than family; even if Shaun is more the Institute’s son than her own, he still shares her blood. “From the moment I woke up in the Commonwealth, I swore to find Shaun. I’ve found him. Now it’s my responsibility to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else. Even after Bunker Hill, I thought there might be hope for him, but after the Castle… I need to face the truth. My son is… a monster. And he needs to be stopped.”

“That doesn’t mean _you_ have to be the one to kill him.”

“Yeah, well,” Eleanor swallows, finally looking away from Arthur only so she can meet Danse’s eyes. “I can’t ask anyone else to do this for me.”

“You aren’t asking. I’m volunteering.”

“I said _no_ , Captain Danse.” Her eyes flash dangerously, anger sparking at his open defiance. There are certain things she is willing to change her mind about, but this is not one of them. “And that’s final. Do I make myself clear?”

Danse grinds his teeth, clearly displeased, but he’s always been a good soldier, and he knows that he cannot defy a direct order. Even if he’s one of Eleanor’s closest friends. Even if he had loosened up somewhat in the month since he had left the Brotherhood.

 _Left_.

Like he’d had been discharged on good terms.

Was it bad that he felt guilty? Or was it just proof of how much he had changed since Eleanor had walked into his life? A year ago, he wouldn’t have given a second thought about a “synth traitor.” Danse may be a synth, but he isn’t a traitor. Eleanor was right about what she said to Teagan. Once, they would have all put their lives in Danse’s hands, and for a good reason. He has always been a good soldier. One of their best, even.

In hindsight, he should have defied the Brotherhood’s rules, and kept Danse within their ranks, but he seems… happy with the Minutemen. His new rank suits him, and if he had a suit of T-51 power armour, it would be like nothing had ever changed.

Perhaps he could see about _conveniently_ abandoning a full suit of T-51 that needed repairing outside the Castle.

Regardless, he sees now that the Brotherhood’s methods and beliefs are more than a little outdated. Even if the Minutemen are too young to have traditions and customs, there’s a reason the people of the Commonwealth see them as a beacon of hope in these dark times. They don’t look to the Brotherhood for guidance, for protection—they look to the Minutemen.

They look to Eleanor.

She is older than the Brotherhood is, and up until last October, she had never owned a weapon of her own, and yet, somehow, she represents everything the Commonwealth needs right now. A piece of the past—a memory from a time before the radiation that plagues the Wasteland—and she will not stop until she has attained peace. She had watched one war tear apart her home. She refuses to let a second do the same.

 “No one else is going to die,” Eleanor continues after a long moment of silence. Even on the verge of tears, she is just as proud and intimidating as the generals of yore. Her grief does not make her weak. It is the fuel that has fed the fire in her heart since she’d found herself wandering the hollow shell of what had once been her home. “I can’t even remember their names; the list is too long.”

 _Of the people, by the people, for the people_.

Hancock—and by extension, Goodneighbour—has adopted that phrase as their own, using it to justify what they do, and why they do it, but they’ve missed the point. They might be ruling themselves, but Goodneighbour’s plagued with problems that had arisen from their lack of structure and laws.

_The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract._

“Countless died in the war that made this Wasteland,” she says, raising her head. “They died for a victory they never got to see, and it was sheer luck that humanity managed to rise from the ashes. We cannot repeat the mistakes of the past.”

_The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced._

“The Institute—” Eleanor slams her hand down on the map, the crate serving as a table booming at the impact, “—has terrorized the Commonwealth for too long. Always looking over our shoulders, never knowing if our loved ones are the people we think them to be, or if they are strangers wearing the faces of those closest to us. The war that destroyed the world… It never stopped. It continued on past the end of the world, and devolved into this. How many more are going to die before this war ends?”

_It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honoured dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—_

“I have watched an entire nation, and entire _world_ die at the hands of those who thought they could control an entire population. I have watched the world end, and I have watched it be reborn. I have survived a nuclear apocalypse, and I have survived whatever the Wasteland dared to throw at me.”

_That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—_

She burns with her fiery anger, like a warrior angel descended from the heavens. “This war,” she says. “This war ends with us. No more. No more bloodshed. No more terror. No more hiding in the shadows. No more. Freedom for all, or no freedom at all. The Institute cannot control us, and we will not let them. We either see this through, or we die, because I— _we_ —will not stop fighting until we’re dead.”

_That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—_

Arthur lets out a heavy breath. They will remember her, he thinks to himself. The Brotherhood will remember him, but the entire world—or what’s left of it—will remember her. She, who survived the end of the world only to help it rise from the ashes. “Then we fight,” Arthur says, looking to her, but how could he look anywhere else? She eclipses all else, the brightness of her fire almost blinding, and he cannot see anything but her. “Alongside you. And should we die… The Brotherhood would be proud to die alongside you.”

_And that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I uhhhh got a little bit heavy there with some American history, but wahey, I felt like it fit. Also, Eleanor's coming for everyone's wigs with her speech game, even if it was more than a little inspired by Shepard's speech in pre-Suicide Mission in Mass Effect 2... not that... femshep inspired El... nope. _Anywayyyyy,_ we're very close to the finale now, so hey, if you've stuck around, I love you, and thanks for indulging me. Especially since this started out as a one shot, whoops!


	53. Chapter Fifty Three

The following days are a flurry of rushed planning as the Brotherhood prepares to take the fight to the Institute. He’s distantly aware of Ashley stopping by once to speak with Ingram about powering Prime, but she’s gone before he can speak to her—not that he has even a minute to spare. They know the Institute has spies that monitor everything they’re doing, and for this plan to succeed, they need to spring their trap. The double envelopment is tricky to pull off, but it’s the best shot they’ve got, even he can’t deny that. It does, however, mean that Minutemen are coming and going at all hours, coordinating their efforts with the Brotherhood, and ensuring that both parties are fully prepared to fight— _and die_ —for a future many have already died for.

For a future many will never get to see.

Arthur wonders as he looks around the main deck of the Prydwen how many of these people will not live to see the dawn of this new age. How many of their names will be put in a list for him to write letters home to their families? How many of this brothers and sisters will get to see that this, that their sacrifice, will not have been for nothing?

And more importantly: will Eleanor’s name be on that list?

He doesn’t care if his name is there among the dead. A part of fighting for the Brotherhood is accepting that few soldiers ever die in their beds. This world isn’t kind as it is, and they throw themselves in the line of fire day after day to protect the innocent. But Eleanor… Eleanor, as he has reminded himself time and time again, isn’t a soldier.

And he does not think he could live with himself if he had to bury her. He knows she is not one to lead from a safe distance, as generals are wont to do, and he daren’t say that she is delicate because of her… condition, but…

Every time she leaves his sight, he swears his heart stops beating until she has returned.

 _Ad victoriam_ —to victory—the Brotherhood says, but what good is victory, he wonders, if the dead outnumber the living? What good is victory if there’s nothing left to live for after the dust has settled?

He glances up from his clipboard containing the list of the things he needs to do by the day’s end just to see a small group of squires following Eleanor around the main deck as she signs off on requests Minutemen keep handing to her. He’s almost amused by the fact that the Minutemen have been forced to accept that they’re more likely to reach her on the Prydwen than they would at the Castle. She goes back for at least an hour every day for a progress report, but an hour’s hardly enough time for her to go over everything.

The squires don’t seem to be bothering her much, which is a good thing, he notes. They pepper her with questions, and a few insistently tug at the hem of her coat—which can’t button over her stomach, to her frustration—but they don’t prevent her from doing what needs to be done. A few of the older ones, just a year or two short from being allowed to start training, take notes in makeshift notebooks. Eleanor seems exhausted from her constant running around, not to mention the toll the pregnancy is taking on her especially since she rarely sleeps, but she indulges the squires nonetheless. Hell, she even does it with a smile, answering all their questions to the best of her ability. The squires, naturally, won’t be fighting the Institute, but that hasn’t put a damper on their curiosity.

“Squires!” Arthur says sharply as he overhears one ask about Danse— _“He’s a synth! The Enemy! A traitor! Why did you let him into the Minutemen?”_ —the question hitting a little too close for Eleanor. She grimaces at the question, expression souring, but relaxes as he comes into view. The squires snap to stand at attention as soon as they hear Arthur, echoing a chorus of _ad victoriam_. “Don’t you have duties to be attending to?”

“No, sir!” pipes up a young girl by the name of Em. “Paladin Gunny said we had finished our drills, and Paladin Brandis said he’d had enough of us one day. He said Johnny was getting on his nerves.”

“He did not!” Johnny protests.

“Did too!”

Even if they aren’t exactly behaving with the decorum expected of even their youngest recruits, Arthur finds himself smiling. He remembers what it was like to have CO’s that were harsh on him as a child, and while he is still strict, he won’t be cruel. “Very well,” he says, “but General Ridley has things she needs to be doing, and you need to give her some space. As for Danse… Danse is one of the good ones.”

“Is there such thing as a good synth, sir?” Squire Albert, one of the older squires, asks him, his youthful brow set in something akin to confusion.

Arthur glances to Eleanor before looking back to Albert. “Yes,” he says, aware that a year ago, he’d have said the opposite. “Just as not all humans are good. People should be measured by their actions, not the things they can’t change about themselves. Now. Run along. I’m certain Scribe Neriah needs help feeding her mole rats.”

With several excited exclamations, the gaggle of the children scamper off to find Neriah. The poor girl won’t know what hit her, but it is better that they pester her than Eleanor who almost seems dead on her feet. He doesn’t know how she’s still standing. He’s been drinking cup after cup of coffee to keep himself awake, but Cade had been very insistent about her limiting her caffeine intake. To which she had promptly reminded him that she had already delivered one child without complications, being attended to by a doctor who was almost definitely more qualified than him.

Cade hadn’t taken that all that well, but he respects her position enough to challenge her too much.

“You’re good with kids,” Eleanor mumbles, rubbing at her eyes as she fights back a yawn. It’s almost midnight, and she’s been up since dawn. He had woken to an empty bed, he remembers, with a note on her pillow, apologising for being called to the Castle to deal with an unknown problem. “I never know what to say around them.”

“It’s just practice,” he says, hands in his pockets.

“I… never had that opportunity,” she says, looking away, and he knows she’s thinking about all the things she had missed when she had been a mother the first time. She had missed Shaun’s first steps, her son barely eight months old when the bombs had dropped. She had never got to see him grow up, or go to school, or anything. She had missed her child’s entire life, and he now is older than she is, and they can never get the time they lost back. Even if Shaun is nothing short of a terrible person, it’s hardly fair.

But as Eleanor had pointed out, war isn’t fair.

Arthur knows better than to draw attention to her sadness, even if she’s long since accepted it. “I was in their shoes once,” he says instead, giving her something else to focus on. “Except every adult was a lot harsher to me because of…” _Because of something he cannot change about himself._ “I try to say everything I wouldn’t have heard as a kid.”

Eleanor smiles but it’s forced, and her gaze is elsewhere. “Sometimes,” she says, “I fear that I won’t be a good mother. I… I don’t exactly have a great track record.”

“You manage Piper and Cait well enough,” he says. “A child is probably easier.”

This time, she laughs, and it’s genuine. “Haven’t had to deal with Piper much lately. She and Ashley have been spending a lot of time by themselves. I don’t blame them. Piper almost didn’t make it out of the fire, and Ashley was fucking terrified. I would be too. _Was_ too. But it’s not the same.”

“I keep meaning to ask about how they’re doing.”

“They’re… good. Piper doesn’t really care about what Ashley stands for. The whole ‘Lone Wanderer’ thing? It doesn’t matter to her. I mean, it did, at first. Ashley didn’t tell her for the longest while, and you should have heard the arguing when it finally came to light. She wasn’t happy with me for keeping it secret, but the way I saw it, it wasn’t my secret to tell. I don’t even know Ashley all that well, beyond the fact that she stole something of mine, and immediately handed it over to you.”

“You likely won’t be getting an apology for that either.”

She snorts. “Yeah. I got that impression from her.” They lapse into silence, both of them too exhausted to maintain a full conversation. Planning a war is nothing short of hard work, and they don’t have the luxury of taking their time with this. Normally, he has weeks to plan an assault of this size. They need to start moving, and moving quickly.

Arthur knows he wouldn’t have been able to do this by himself. The Minutemen’s support helps take off the stress on the Brotherhood, and Eleanor’s personal support gives him a moment to breathe. She is… more than he could have ever hoped for.

Eleanor leans into him, head buried in the crook of his neck. She doesn’t need to say anything for him to know what she’s thinking. She just wants this all to be over. She wants to settle down, somewhere hopefully far away, where she can just be herself without having to worry about her responsibilities. He knows how she feels.

“I can’t wait until this is all over,” she murmurs, barely loud enough for him to hear over the commotion of the people around them. “I’ve had enough of war to last a lifetime.”

“Or several, in your case.”

She laughs under her breath, and he can hear her sharp intake of breath as she goes to speak before she’s soon cut off.

“Elder Maxson,” Quinlan interrupts, clearing his throat. Arthur knows the Proctor means well, but his timing is nothing but abysmal. Immediately, Eleanor steps away from his side, scratching the back of her neck, and her cheeks smattered with crimson. They can’t hide the nature of their relationship— _can’t hide the swell of her stomach, can’t hide the way he looks at her like there’s no one else in the world_ —but their titles do not allow them the luxury of being anything but professional in public. He hates few things, but he hates it. He _hates_ how he can’t put her safety above everyone else’s, he hates how he can’t love her as he should, can’t love her as she deserves to be loved.

“Proctor,” says Arthur, grinding his teeth. Eleanor’s trying her hardest to avoid looking at Quinlan. Arthur knows that she isn’t ashamed of him. He knows that she does her utmost to maintain this air of professionalism, particularly around her Minutemen, all in an attempt to distance herself from her alter ego. Ridley is the General. The one who wears the blood of countless dead on her hands. Ridley is the one who had torn apart the entire Commonwealth looking for her son.

Eleanor is…

Eleanor is the one who maintains a lighthouse she rarely has the time to visit, just so she can have a place to escape to if it all becomes too much. Eleanor is the one who had decided that she is the one who has to wear Shaun’s death on her conscience forever. Eleanor is the one he had fallen in love with, and Eleanor—

Eleanor just _is_.

“I can see that you’re…” Quinlan’s gaze darts to Eleanor, “busy.”

Arthur almost laughs.

“ _However_ ,” the Proctor continues, hands clasped behind his back, “there is… something you need to attend to.”

“Could you be any less vague, Proctor?”

Quinlan is good-spirited enough to smile, unlike Teagan who would have treated Arthur’s light-hearted jab as a personal insult. “He made it rather clear that knowledge of his presence should be restricted to persons of the utmost importance and those the Brotherhood is certain can be trusted. While Ridley’s status as paladin, as well as personal connections to you would certainly deem her ‘trustworthy,’ I imagine he would see Ridley’s other, ah, _allegiances_ as a conflict of interest.”

Just from the secrecy, and the deliberate refusal to use their guest’s name, Arthur knows who’s here. “You didn’t think to inform me he was coming?”

“I’m afraid, sir, he showed up unannounced.”

Fuck. That doesn’t bode well.

“Who’s here?” Eleanor asks, curiosity piqued.

Arthur doesn’t answer her. She’ll see soon enough, and God help them if any of the knights overhear his answer. It would be chaos. “Quinlan, where—”

“Your quarters, sir. It was the only place with a door no one else had a key to.”

He pinches his brow, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Eleanor,” he begins, looking to his… His…

He still doesn’t know what they are to each other. He loves her, and she loves him, but nothing is that simple for people like them. They can’t just love each other as any other person might. There are _rules_ , and they’ve ignored almost every single one of them by pursuing this. The only line they haven’t crossed is nothing more than a formal recognition by the Brotherhood, and the explanation as to why his mother’s ring is still sitting in the drawer of his desk.

She had given him an almost answer to an almost question, but the Brotherhood only deals in absolutes. Every person has a title, has a rank, has a neat little space to fit into, has a duty to perform, has their own proper place. And his affections for Eleanor ignores all of that. Were he not a Maxson, he’d not be allowed to have anything less than a professional relationship with one of his paladins. And were he not the Elder, he’d have been permitted to bed the leader of a potential enemy force without concern.

But he is the Elder, and she is the General of an army almost as large of his own. It doesn’t to the Brotherhood if their affections run deep. It doesn’t matter to the Brotherhood if they’ve somehow managed to make this work. The Brotherhood only cares that she could bring them to their knees. The Brotherhood only cares that he doesn’t have her by his feet like a dutiful Maxson wife ought to be.

Eleanor is not one to be tamed so easily, and he’d be a fool to try to put her on a leash.

She tilts her head at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Come with me.”

Quinlan hesitates, stiffening. “Do you think that’s a good idea, sir?”

“No,” he admits. They might kill them both for this, but he’d rather die trying to defy the Brotherhood than to live without her. “But,” he continues, “she has a right to be here. If not as the General, then as my…”

Mother of his child sounds too impersonal, and they are too intimate to call her his girlfriend. His lover makes her seem like an illicit affair that he has to hide, and while that might have once been true, it is true no longer.

“With all due respect, sir, I hardly think this is wise,” Quinlan protests, chasing after Arthur as he heads to his quarters.

Arthur ignores him. He doesn’t need the Proctor to confirm that this is a bad idea. He _knows_ it is a bad idea, but he is tired of hiding. Hiding from the Institute, hiding his affections from Eleanor, hiding from the Brotherhood— _no._ He will have no more of it. Eleanor always stares her adversaries down before she brings them down to their knees, unashamed and unafraid. He wishes he could have half her confidence, but he supposes then that he would also carry half of her regret, and she has enough regret to make even the mountains cry.

None of it matters. It’s none of the Brotherhood’s business who he beds. They had tried to set him up with strangers, years ago, when he had been only seventeen, all in an attempt to secure an heir. They were content with unknown women who had come from all walks of life, and only shared their fertility as a common trait. They would be content with Eleanor who is better than anyone they could have matched him with.

If not because he loves her, but because she is a better woman than them all.

Still, that doesn’t mean his stomach is in knots. What’s the worst they could do, he asks himself. Strip him of his rank, and exile him? Force him to abandon everything he had worked so hard for? Let them, he says to himself. Let them take everything he has ever had. Let them strike his name from the history books. They can have everything so long as he has Eleanor. She means more to him than everything else combined.

And perhaps, with no obligations to serve the Brotherhood, that lighthouse of hers could finally have occupants.

“Arthur,” Eleanor murmurs, placing a hand over his heart, her light touch forcing him to stop him in his tracks. She is a strong woman, he knows that, but she can render him weak with nothing but a single look in his direction. “I trust you, I swear I do, but I have been doing this for too long to voluntarily walk into a room where someone I don’t know is waiting for me. Especially if you’re even half as scared of him as you seem to be.”

“It’ll be…” He doesn’t want to lie to Eleanor, but he can’t find the words he needs in order to explain the significance of this to her. It’d be easier if she had been Brotherhood, if she had grown up with the Brotherhood’s values instilled into her, but she had not, and he finds himself not knowing what to say. “It’ll be easier if you just met him,” he offers lamely, half expecting her to demand an explanation. To his surprise, she only purses her lips, and drops her hand in order step out of his way.

“I trust you,” she reaffirms in a whisper, and it almost sounds like a promise.

Arthur does not get nervous easily. He can’t afford to doubt himself, can’t afford to second guess himself when people depend on him. Nervousness leads to fear, and fear leads to innocent people dying. He is meant to lead the charge, meant to be the one carrying the sword and shield. He is the last of the Maxson legacy. He should not be nervous.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he is.

“Elder Maxson.” Black eyes almost as dark as their pupils settle on him, watchful and wary. They linger for a moment before darting to settle on Eleanor. His voice is almost as cold as his gaze, like a sheet of metal being dragged across ice; creaking, and grating, and sending shivers down his spine. “And General Ridley, I presume?”


	54. Chapter Fifty Four

Diederik Callahan looks precisely how the High Elder of the Brotherhood ought to—tall and proud, all sharp edges with a cruel smile to match. Seeing him standing on the opposite side of the battlefield would make any sensible man hesitate. His hair is almost as black as his eyes, streaked with grey at the temples. He wears a long, black leather duster that ends just beneath the start of his tight laced boots. Beneath his duster, he wears a long sleeved grey shirt, the Brotherhood’s crest stitched just over his heart. One slender hand is behind his back, the other carrying a clipboard, attached to which is a small stack of reports.

Arthur can’t remember the last time he had seen Diederik. The High Elder is not known for leaving the Lost Hills Bunker for anything besides emergencies. The Brotherhood had been losing control of Lost Hills for decades now, and the High Elder couldn’t afford to leave during such a precarious time, as he had heard Diederik say time and time again in their correspondences. To his ears, it sounded like Diederik wanted the title of High Elder, but wanted none of the responsibilities.

When was the last time they had met? It must have been years ago, but the memory is fuzzy. _No, it isn’t._ He remembers Diederik at the Citadel, in his same stupid jacket, with a little less grey in his hair.

_He stood silhouetted against her funeral pyre, a black shadow in the shape of a man against the golden fire that had once been a woman. He had known her too, known Sarah more than he had ever known Arthur, but while others wept for the loss of their Elder, Diederik stood staunch, not a flicker of grief in his angular face._

_There would be speeches later that night, speeches that he would not stay to hear. He didn’t care that the Brotherhood had lost one of their best soldiers. All he cared was that—finally—the Lyons would no longer pose a threat to his rule. The only person who dared to threaten his reign now was the young boy standing next to him, the blood of kings running through his veins. His own blood was blue; he had no claim to his title beyond his family’s claim at being alongside Roger Maxson when the bombs had dropped, but he didn’t care._

_He patted the boy on the back with more force than was necessary, sending the boy stumbling forward as he tried to catch his balance. “Good luck, Elder,” was all he said before turning sharply on his heel, and slipping off into the night._

Their last encounter, Arthur thinks, speaks volumes about who Diederik is as a person. The man cares for little beyond maintaining order and control. They both know that as soon as the Council deems Arthur capable of leading the entire Brotherhood, Diederik will be forced to step down. It does not matter if he has been the only thing keeping the Lost Hills Bunker standing on its last legs, the title of High Elder belongs to a Maxson, and it has been far, far, _far_ too long since a Maxson was High Elder. If it weren’t for Owyn Lyons’ insistence, the Council would have made him High Elder before he could have even written his own name. They’d have used him as a means to their own ends, not caring that they were using a young boy as a weapon in their fight for total control of the Wasteland. They’d have turned him into a puppet who cared more about the Brotherhood’s continued existence than the lives of those the Brotherhood was meant to protect.

He’d have turned out to be Diederik, in short.

Eleanor straightens as best as she can in her state, hands crossed across her chest. At five months pregnant, it is difficult for her to look physically intimidating. She isn’t in any state to be getting into a close-quarters fight as she might have months ago, but that doesn’t change the fact that she looks ready to end Diederik is he steps out of line. She doesn’t care for the Brotherhood’s ranks, doesn’t care that this man is at the top of the metaphorical food chain.

All she cares is that he is posing a threat to her, and her family, and he won’t live to see the sunrise if he hurts any one of them.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Arthur readily admits that he would pay to see her punch Diederik. Arthur’s jaw had been sore for days after she’d mistakenly punched him, and she’d hit him blindly in a fit of rage. He can’t imagine what her punch would be like when it was actually intentional.

“You know my name,” Eleanor says tightly, “but I’m afraid I can’t say the same about you. Who are you, and what do you want?”

She is nothing but direct, and the tone she uses would have intimidated any other person into submission. But not Diederik. Diederik doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “High Elder Callahan,” he says, dipping into a bow, and reaching for her hand to place a kiss on her knuckles but she steps back away from him before he can even touch her. “A pleasure to final meet you. I’ve heard… many things.”

If that’s Diederik’s attempt to reassure her that he doesn’t have ulterior motives, he fails. Miserably. It somehow only manages to put Eleanor more on edge, her white teeth glinting in the light as she bares them at him in something akin to a snarl. “Good things, I hope.” Her words are strangely pleasant in comparison to the animosity in her voice.

“Why,” Arthur says through gritted teeth, “are you here, Diederik?”

“You’ve failed to respond to several of the Council’s inquiries,” he answers, straightening to look him in the eyes. “We began to fear that something might have befallen you. That you might have been…” He glances at Eleanor for a brief second, “ _compromised_.”

She looks just about ready to kill him.

“You failed to report to the Brotherhood about the information you discovered about former Paladin Danse, Maxson,” Diederik says, taking a peek down at the papers attached to his clipboard. “I trust he has been adequately dealt with?”

“James Danse is a Captain in the Minutemen’s ranks, and the General’s third,” Arthur says. “I’m afraid he is no longer the Brotherhood’s to punish, and I do not have the authority to impose a punishment upon one of General Ridley’s men.”

His expression sours at that news. Arthur had informed the Council of his decision to ally with the Minutemen, going out of his way to make it clear that their partnership was founded on mutual respect, but he knows that Diederik would have rather him beat the Minutemen into submission.

“Danse,” interjects Eleanor, “is a trusted friend, and an excellent soldier. I understand that his… ah, identity, is nothing short of a disappointment for the Brotherhood, but our standards are quite different from yours. If I caught wind that anything had happened to him at the hands of the Brotherhood, I assure you that there would be hell to pay.”

Diederik narrows his eyes. “Watch your tongue, General Ridley. You speak to the High Elder. A privilege not many are bestowed with.”

“And you have the privilege of speaking to the woman who singlehandedly saved this shithole of a Commonwealth with little more than a 10mm, and two hundred and ten years’ worth of anger. Watch your own tongue.”

“Elder Maxson,” growls Diederik, “keep your woman in line.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Whatever chance Diederik had at earning Eleanor’s respect, it has been thrown out the window now. She still hasn’t forgiven Gunny for his comments about Nate, and that had been months ago.

 Arthur doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He is caught between an unstoppable force, and an immovable object. Neither of them will bend, neither of them will break. What is he expected to do? Side with Diederik? No. He had chosen Eleanor, and he will choose her again, and again, and again, and again, and—

She is the only thing that matters.

Silently, he takes a step closer to her side, resting a hand on her shoulder in a wordless act of defiance. He is on her side, and he has only ever been on her side. “A handful of unanswered letters hardly warrants a trip across the Wasteland to see me,” Arthur says. “When was the last time you left the Bunker?”

His defiance doesn’t escape Diederik’s notice, but the High Elder daren’t mention it. Mentioning it would be acknowledging it, and acknowledging it would only mean that it’s real. It would mean that the Brotherhood recognises that his heart is hers. “There were concerns. About the Maxson line.”

“Concerns about the mother of my child, you mean,” Arthur snaps. “You can hardly hide your disapproval, Diederik, but then again, you’re predictable. You care little for anyone or anything outside the Brotherhood.”

“You abandoned your family, Maxson!” Diederik’s anger fully manifests now as he turns on the man he’d hope would complacently follow the Brotherhood, never questioning tradition, never questioning their rules. “You abandoned everything you ever stood for, for what? For this Wastelander with a pretty face?”

“I only abandoned what you stood for, Callahan,” Arthur says. “The Brotherhood was created to protect those left behind in the fallout. It was never about power, it was never about territory. It was never about secluding ourselves in a bunker deep underground, preserving tradition even if it’s the death of us.”

“Shield yourself from those not bound to you by steel, for they are the blind,” Diederik spits out. “You know what the Codex says about outsiders.”

“With all due respect, High Elder, _fuck_ the Codex.”

He can almost hear Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath. His words surprise her just as much as they surprise him. Half a year ago, the thought of condemning the Codex even in jest would have made him uneasy, but now… Now, he wants no part of a Brotherhood that doesn’t put the people first. Perhaps it’s because his entire life he had been taught that the Brotherhood’s safety came before everyone else’s otherwise they wouldn’t survive. He had been taught that an organisation such as theirs would collapse if they shared everything they had with the world.

But the Minutemen operate on that very premise, and they are a force to be reckoned with.

“You’re walking on thin ice, Elder,” Diederik says, narrowing his eyes.

“And so are you,” he shoots back. “You come here, uninvited, unannounced, and promptly insult my… My…”

“Your?”

“His fiancée, not that that’s any of your concern,” Eleanor quickly interjects, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, as though waiting for him to disagree. But he can’t. He won’t. If it weren’t for the fact that Diederik’s standing right there, he’d probably have kissed her.

Perhaps have tested just how sturdy his table is too.

Instead, his grip tightens on Eleanor’s shoulder as though he’s scared that she will slip right through his fingers if he lets go. The Commonwealth had waited two hundred and ten years for her, and if it weren’t for a strange turn of tragedies after tragedies, she wouldn’t be standing here right now.

“Your child,” Diederik says, “belongs to the Brotherhood. A Maxson _must_ lead the Brotherhood.”

“No.” She is as cold as ice, and as strong as steel. She has lost too much, watched too many die; she won’t let the Brotherhood take their child. She has lost one child already, and had stood helpless. She will sooner raze the Brotherhood to the ground than let than happen again. “People do not belong to other people.”

“I would watch what you say, Callahan,” Arthur says coolly, anger fading into a simmering hatred that burns in the centre of his chest. “You’ll soon be speaking to the rightful High Elder’s wife, and last I checked, disrespecting your superiors was a punishable offence.”

A muscle twitches in Diederik’s jaw as the man grinds his teeth. “ _Naturally,_ ” he says, but Arthur knows that this argument is far from over. “The Council will wish to hear of this. And…” This clearly pains him to say, but it he forces it out through his teeth anyway. “Congratulations on your engagement, sir.”

Arthur smiles, but it’s all teeth, and nothing else. “Thank you, Callahan. I trust you can see your own way out.”

His nostrils flare as he lets out a breath, but he returns Arthur’s forced smile with one of his own. He doesn’t say goodbye to either of them. He looks to Eleanor with a huff before throwing his clipboard down on the table before marching out, slamming the door behind him.

And the instant he’s gone, Eleanor bursts into a fit of laughter. “God that was just— Fuck— Oh my God—” she says between gasps, leaning against the table for support. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling giggles. “Well, isn’t he just one big bucket of fucking fun.”

Arthur gives her a long look. “You found that funny, did you?”

She grins, still laughing. “I mean…”

He just watches her, and soon finds himself laughing alongside her. “God,” he says, stepping to stand between her legs, her swollen stomach pressed against him. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you.”

“So, about the engaged thing…” she starts. “I realised I’d never given you an answer to your question. If you disagree—”

“No.” He doesn’t even let her finish. “No, I don’t disagree. I’d be my honour to call you my wife.” A laugh bubbles from her lips, and it soon turns into a shriek as he picks her up and spins her around. It doesn’t matter if Diederik wants their heads on a silver platter, it doesn’t matter that they’re about to go to war.

All that matters is the fact that she’s here. She’s his.

And she’s going to be his wife.


	55. Chapter Fifty Five [E]

Piece by piece, bit by bit, everything starts to fall together. A letter comes in from Deacon that the remnants of the Railroad are ready to stand by their newfound allies, and the list of things the Brotherhood and the Minutemen have to do grows shorter by the hour. At this point, all they’re doing is delaying the inevitable, and preparing for the worst. Weapons and armour are checked for damage, and then checked again. Battle tactics are covered, and then covered again. Plans of attack are made, and then made again. People will die, Arthur knows that. It’s inevitable. No war has ever been fought without bloodshed.

But he’ll be damned if they don’t put up one hell of a fight. They’ll win, or they’ll die. Either way, come tomorrow, they’ll either be ash, or they’ll be victorious.

Eleanor has that look on her face she always does when she’s concentrating—brows furrowed, knuckle of her forefinger pressed to her lips, her eyes scanning her clipboard again, and again, as though she might have missed something during her fifth read-through. He’d almost had to force her to eat, the thought of sustaining herself when she might lose her best friends in battle tomorrow almost impossible for her to understand.

“Ellie,” Arthur says quietly, placing a hand on the small of her back while forcing her to put her clipboard down with his other hand. “You need to sleep.”

But she only shakes her head, and refuses to let go. “I still have work to do.”

“You’ll work yourself to death,” he says quietly, “and you’re no good to anyone if you’re dead.” Those words finally get through to her, and her grip loosens just enough for him to pull the clipboard out of her hands, and set it down on the table.

“We have to get this right,” she says, turning to whisper against his chest. “ _I_ have to get this right.”

“We’ve already done all that we can,” Arthur says, “and that’s all we can do. We’ve fought, and we’ve bled, and that’s what matters. We can never get war right. War isn’t right. We do what we can, and we pray that it’s enough.”

She lets out a small, weak laugh. “It’s funny,” she says. “This is what they must have thought to themselves before they dropped the bombs. They did what they can to save the ones they could. And now, two hundred years later… It’s all the same, isn’t it? War’s the same, no matter what century you’re in.”

 Arthur takes a step back in order to look her in the eyes, tilting her chin up when she keeps her gaze on the ground. “Eleanor,” he says, “You’ve done your best. That’s all that matters.”

“Is it?” she says. “Is my best good enough when anything less than perfect means that people will die?”

“You can’t do anything else.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “But the last time I stood by as war broke out, the world ended, and I lost my family.”

“You won’t lose me,” he swears, even if he knows that he doesn’t have any control over it.  He doesn’t decide who lives and who dies, but he does decide how hard he fights to stay by her side, and he won’t go down easy.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he says, and before he can register anything, her lips are on his, and her hands are pulling at his coat, nails digging into his shoulders as she nearly tears it off of him. She backs him up against the bed, his knees hitting the edge of the frame. He’s forced to sit down, Eleanor straddling him, one leg on either side.

Her hair is pulled to one side, falling over one shoulder. “Arthur—” she starts, yelping as he suddenly turns her over so she’s back-first on his bed. A laugh soon follows, and she reaches up to run her hand through his beard. “If you die, I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll try to keep that in my mind,” he says through a smile, lifting her white shirt up over her head to expose her full breasts, groaning at the sight of her honey coloured skin. His cock stirs in his pants, all the blood rushing from his head to his stiffening member. Fuck, but she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His hips thrust against hers, cursing the fabric that’s between them. “Pants. Off. Now,” he growls.

A delighted peal escapes her, but she props herself up onto her elbows regardless, shimmying her pants down, and kicking them across the room with a flick of her foot.

God fucking _dammit_. He doesn’t know how she manages it, but her panties somehow match her bra as they always do, black and lacy and far too delicate for someone who lives in this post-apocalyptic wasteland. If they hadn’t cost her a fortune, he would have torn them straight off of her.

And shit, the thought of her walking around without any underwear on makes him crazy.

He reaches for the zipper of his flight suit, but she presses a hand against his chest, stopping him before he can start. “No,” she says, “let me.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t want to. He watches in silence as she forces him to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly pulling the zipper down, exposing his chest inch by inch. She hesitates for a brief moment before pulling it down completely, hooking a finger beneath the waistband of his briefs to pull them down too. His cock is achingly hard, a small bead of pre on the tip that she quickly wipes away with one swoop of her tongue.

He hisses through gritted teeth, the sensation almost painful. She only smiles up at him from beneath her lashes, fully aware of the effect she has on him. “Something wrong, _sir_?”

She knows how to get underneath his skin, knows exactly what to say to him to get his blood boiling, and his heart pounding, in both good ways and bad ways. “I hate you.”

She laughs again. “No, you don’t,” she says, wrapping her slender hand around him, and slowly pulling downwards.

He can’t suppress the groan that escapes him. He’s only in his mid-twenties, and doesn’t need much prep, especially when she’s on his knees for him like this. “I need you,” he says throatily.

“All,” she says slowly, whispering in his ears, “you have to do is ask.”

“I don’t ask,” he snarls, pulling her up and onto the bed. “I _take_.”

Arthur runs his hand down across one breast, calloused fingers skimming over the swell of her stomach before wrapping around her waist. He knows her body better than he knows his own. He has mapped out every inch of her with his hands, with his tongue, with his eyes, but the sight of her spread open for him still takes his breath away. Her soft, ashen curls are slick with her arousal, and nothing but tempting. How could the Brotherhood have ever expected him to resist her? To walk away from her?

He sinks into her slowly, a moan escaping her lips, one arm thrown over her face as she leans back, head just managing to hit his pillow. He finds himself combing her hair back away from her face before knotting his fingers through her golden locks at the base of her skull.

Eleanor pushes herself against him, silently pleading for more, for him to go harder, faster, but not tonight. This isn’t about sex. This is about not knowing if they will be sleeping alone tomorrow, the other side of the bed colder than it has been in months.

He sets the pace, far too slowly for both of their likings. He coaxes quiet, breathless gasps from her rather than the ragged cries he has become used to, and her hands knot in the sheets rather than claw at his bare back. He traces constellations on her freckled skin, thanking whatever god that may be out there that he had even been allowed to share such a small amount of time with her. Meeting her should have been impossible, falling in love with her should have been impossible too. And yet…

Eleanor clenches down on him as her orgasm washes over her, her eyes scrunched tight, and as much as he wants to chase his own release, he steels himself and watches her ride it out. She is everything, and if he dies tomorrow, then he could happily say that he had done all that he could. He had fought as hard as he could, he had given everything he had, and he done it for her.

They never should have met.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t glad that they did.

Eleanor reaches up to cup his face, lightly combing his beard with her fingers, her thumb brushing over h. Fuck, he loves her hands. They’re slender and delicate from afar, but up close, her skin is littered with scars and callouses from the amount of time she has spent building her settlements from the ground up. He loves the way she often has a slight stain on the knuckle of her forefinger from how often she presses it to her lips when she thinks, loves the way she gestures with them. He loves the way she reaches for him when she thinks others aren’t look, giving his hand a tight reassuring squeeze to remind him that she’s there, even if decorum dictates that she should restrain herself and remain professional.

Then Eleanor smiles, and he comes undone. He sees stars, head lolling backwards as a senseless string of words tears from him. For a brief moment, he forgets that tomorrow, the world might end for the second time in Eleanor’s life.

Eleanor sits up, pecks him on the lips, cleaning herself up with a cloth before turning over, pulling the blankets up, and settling in for the night. Arthur shrugs on a clean pair of briefs, and a shirt. He watches her fall asleep, distantly aware of the hours passing. His feet almost seem to lead them of their own accord, and he finds himself looking down at a small velvet bag in the drawer of his desk. He pours the contents out into the palm of his hand, brow set in a line as he stares down at the family heirloom.

It’s a little too large for her, but that’s something he’s certain Ingram can fix, and he slips it onto her hand regardless. His mother’s ring suits her; the simple, vintage band that had been handed down to her from her own mother, and her mother from his grandmother is understated, the platinum band still sparkling after two centuries. The simple, circular diamond set in the middle has been chipped over time, but is otherwise flawless, having withstood the test of time.

He raises Eleanor’s hand, pressing his lips to the ring now nestled on her finger. “I promise,” he says quietly, as to not wake her. “You won’t lose me.”


	56. Chapter Fifty Six

It’s strange to think that it’s all boiled down to this.

The Brotherhood is taking up their positions along the route to the ruins of the CIT building, prepared to defend Liberty Prime by any means necessary. Eleanor had bid farewell to Hancock, Valentine, and Danse this morning, ensuring that they had everything they needed before they disappeared off into the heart of enemy territory. She hides it well, but Arthur can tell that she’s nervous. Her hair is pulled tight back from her face, and someone had modified her stealth suit to accommodate for the weight she had gained, but even if she looks physically intimidating, he recognises the distress in her peridot eyes even if she insists that she’s fine.

She’s not fine—how could she be? She could very well be sending her closest friends to their deaths. And come sundown tonight, her son will have either killed her, or she will have killed her son.

There’s nothing “fine” about any of this, but she doesn’t need to hear that. Not now. So instead, Arthur discusses battle plans with her, ensures that she has the battlefield memorised, and ignores the elation he feels over the fact that she’s still wearing his mother’s ring. She hadn’t taken it off when she’d awoke hours before he had, always one to get up with the first light of dawn, and she hadn’t committed on it since.

But he had caught her smiling down at it more than once when she thinks he isn’t looking.

Arthur raises his face to the cloudless sky, letting out a breath through his teeth. It’s too perfect of a day for people to die, but they’re running out of time. It’s important to the Minutemen that Eleanor is seen out there fighting alongside them, and with every week, it becomes harder and harder for her to spend hours outside doing things that would impress even his most seasoned soldiers. At this point though, she’s running on nothing but anger, and a melancholic need to get this over and done with.

She just wants this chapter of her life to be over, and he can’t blame her. She had grown up in a time of war, and it’s like it’s happening all over again. The anti-communist propaganda Prime almost shouts doesn’t help either. He catches her off by herself, hands clenched in fists by her side as she tries to control her breathing just as often as he catches her looking at his mother’s ring.

“Ellie.” It’s just her name, nothing special— _it’s special to him, but that hardly counts_ —but it’s enough to make her turn, and he can see how bloodshot her eyes are. He knows better than to draw attention to it, knows that it’s kinder for him to pretend that he doesn’t know she’s been crying. She holds her 10mm in her hands, grip so tight that her knuckles are white. “I think—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, Deacon appearing out of almost nowhere— _he’s a spy, it’s to be expected_ —dressed in his leather jacket as usual, eyes shining behind his black sunglasses. “There you are, Wanda. Been looking all over for you.”

“Well, you’ve found me,” Eleanor says.

Deacon’s lip purses, no doubt noting her choked up voice, but he too has the sense not to comment on it. “I got your jacket back. Ballistic weave, as requested.” He holds up her navy coat, and tosses it to the General. She catches it, admiring the modifications he’s made to the lining before shrugging it on. “Should help stop most bullets, even at point-blank range. Don’t mean it won’t hurt like hell though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” she says, holstering her 10mm on her waist. She doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I’m afraid I have to go speak to Preston.”

It’s a poor excuse if he’s ever heard one, but he and Deacon both understand that she needs a moment to herself before bullets start flying. They let her go without a word, watching her leave before turning to each other.

“Hard to forget sometimes that she isn’t a machine,” Deacon says quietly. “Wanda always looks and acts like she’s got her shit together, but she’s just as human as the rest of us.”

“I only wish she didn’t have to have a part in this,” Arthur mutters, running a hand through his hair. “She’s been through so much already.”

“I was gonna question you about caring for her, but she’s got a nice, sparkly ring on her finger saying that you might actually give a shit about her.” Deacon doesn’t try to be antagonising, but the new leader of the Railroad is just one of those people who makes everything seem like a joke, even if he doesn’t mean to. “Y’know, I never much cared for the Minutemen. The idea sounds great, but you give small men big power, and sometimes you’ll pay for it. Thought that would happen when I first met her. It hasn’t yet.”

“I’ve learned not to underestimate her.”

“Yeah, you learn that pretty quick once you start travelling with her. Girl’s achieved the impossible. Just look at what she did with the Railroad. I always knew our number would be up one day. Thought that had been a year ago, but we survived that. But look, she ended that without any bloodshed. Should’ve been impossible.”

“For someone who lives and breathes Railroad, you don’t see too upset over Desdemona’s banishment.”

“Dez was what we needed when she first came into power, but she never changed, never considered anything other than what she knew. We need change. We need new.” _We need Eleanor_.  “And look at us now. We’re the last, and only line of defence between the Institute and the Commonwealth. Hell, maybe even the world. Most of us didn’t expect that to happen because of some greenie Vault Dweller with a big heart, and a whole hell of a lot of anger.” He rolls his shoulders back, looking at Arthur over the tops of his glasses. “I suppose we’ll see today if that anger paid off.” He claps Arthur on the back when he catches sight of a few Railroad agents waiting for him, and heads off to brief them on the plan of attack.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spots a flash of blonde hair, and green eyes lock with his as Eleanor nods, the General quickly ducking into an abandoned store, silently gesturing for him to follow. And follow he does. She paces restlessly, wringing her hands, surrounded by mannequins wearing frilly dresses that would be less than appropriate for the Wasteland.

“Have a nice talk with Deacon?” she asks, and there’s a little less of a tremor in her voice than there had been before. “Shit. I mean Levi. I suppose I should get used to calling him that.”

“He’s…” Arthur leans against a crumbling counter which miraculously supports his weight. “He’s certainly something.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “He is.”

“And how was your talk with Garvey?”

She snorts with amusement, unable to contain herself. “Sorry about that,” she says. “This is all just very reminiscent of…”

“The War,” he finishes when she struggles to get the words out. “I know. No one blames you for it. You shouldn’t have needed to go through this once, let alone twice.”

“Things that need to be done, need to be done,” is all she offers in way of a response. “Not much we can do about it.”

Arthur looks away, unable to say the things he wants to say. He wants to tell her that it’s unfair, but life—life in the Wasteland in particular—isn’t fair. She’s right. There’s not much that can be done, but that doesn’t change that she doesn’t deserve this. “How will your team bring us in once they infiltrate the Relay control centre?” he asks, deliberately avoiding the use of “if.” She doesn’t need to consider the possibility of failure.

“I’ve given them a code that links with my Pip-Boy,” she says. “All they have to do is run the file, and… It’ll give us a warning, before you ask. We won’t just disappear into thin air. How’s Prime coming?”

“Good,” he says. “Li’s just running the final tests now. There’s no way the Institute doesn’t know that we’re coming by now. It’s a miracle they haven’t attacked yet.”

“They’re probably watching,” she says, letting out a breath. “The Watchers are always watching. Not that Shaun needs the birds to know that I’m coming to kill him. He’d probably be surprised if I wasn’t coming to kill him.”

“There’s still time to change your mind,” Arthur says. “We could always just…”

“Run away,” she finishes with a small, sad smile. “To the lighthouse. Maybe even to Far Harbour. I’ve got a few friends there.”

“You have friends everywhere.”

She laughs, but the sound is bitter, and quiet. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Alone. Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It would be.”

 _But people like us don’t get such luxuries_.

Eleanor looks out the broken window of the store, lips pursed. “We should get going. We’ll be expected to do the last checks. I’ll meet you at the CIT with my men.” He nods, but he isn’t really listening. He’s thinking about what will happen if they don’t come back from today. She’s already buried one man she had loved. She can’t bury two, but he can’t bury her either. He had lost Sarah. He had lost his parents. He had lost Owyn, and so many others. He can’t lose her too. “Arthur?”

He looks to her, brow raised.

“Be careful,” is all she says.

“You too,” he replies, and he prays that this isn’t their last farewell.

The Brotherhood’s soldiers are gathered, waiting for him. Many of them look nervous; adjusting their grip on their weapons every few seconds, and shifting their weight from foot to foot, but the instant their gaze falls on Arthur, they all snap to stand at attention. Even if they are fearful of how this will end, they trust him with their lives. A part of him considers that maybe they shouldn’t. He’s just as human as the rest of them. This could all be just one, big mistake, but it’s as Deacon— _Levi,_ he reminds himself—had said. They’re the last line of defence between the Institute and the Commonwealth, and Arthur’s never been one to sit by passively.

 “You all have your stations,” Arthur says, hands behind his back so they can’t see how they’re curled into fists. “Remember: no matter what happens, we are family, and we won’t go down without a fight. It’s all led to this. Make it count. Ad victoriam!”

“Ad victoriam!” his men resound.

A squire hands him his _Final Judgement,_ the Gatling laser heavy and familiar. Vertibirds whir overhead, one man stationed at the mini gun, and the rest armed to the teeth with rifles. He hadn’t been lying when he said it had all led to this. It really has. For almost two full years, they’ve been building to this moment, and now that it’s here, he almost doesn’t know what to do.

He leads the charge alongside Prime, the hulking robot gunning down any enemies before they can even get close to Arthur and the men that follow him. Its gears whir as it walks, and every step it takes is like a small earthquake. It spouts its anti-communist propaganda in its deep, metallic voice. He remembers it from his childhood, remembers how impressively tall it had been then, and for a second, he sees Sarah standing next to him, sadness in her sky coloured eyes, and golden hair shining in the light of the sun.

He had asked himself what feels like an age ago if she would have been proud of the man he had become. Truth be told, he still doesn’t know the answer. He is not the leader she would have been, but does that really matter? He isn’t Sarah, and he can’t keep comparing himself to the memory of a woman ten years gone.

Arthur lets out a heavy breath, eyes on Prime. Still, a part of him hopes that she would have been proud of the fact that he had _tried_. He may not have won every battle, he may have many a regret, but he had tried, and Sarah… Sarah would be proud of that much, at least.

The streets are emptier than he had expected them to be, but perhaps it’s simply because all the Raiders had been scared off by Prime’s bellowing. They’re a brave bunch, but—for the most part, anyway—they’re not idiots. After half an hour of no resistance, he begins to get anxious. There should be synths trying to stop them. What if they had targeted the Minutemen? What if Shaun had abandoned wining this war, and was content with just seeing his mother, and everything she had ever loved dead?

But then—

“ _Victor One, this is bird Delta Two-Four,_ ” Lacer-Knight Jamison calls over the comms. “ _We’re detecting movement on your three, but no heat signatures, over._ ”

Arthur holds his hand up in a fist, his men stopping behind him, fingers on the triggers of their guns. He looks to his right, seeing nothing but ruined buildings and dark alleyways. “Copy Delta Two-Four, this is Victor One. Do you have eyes, over?”

A moment of silence. “ _Copy Victor One. Negative on eyes. Figures estimated twenty-thirty_.” An unacceptable margin of error, but there’s little he can do from the ground. “ _Suspected use of stealth boys, over._ ”

Arthur ducks behind cover, gesturing for his men to do the same, placing a finger over his lips to silence them. Even Prime has stopped moving, scanning their surroundings for movement. “I copy. Stand by, over.”

Before he can even cut the transmission, a synth leaps out from the shadows, diving for Arthur but before anyone can even fire upon it, there’s a loud bang, and the Gen 1’s skeletal form is sent flying backwards. “What the _fuck_ ,” comes a familiar voice, “happened to not using Prime?” Ashley is in her power armour, her dirtied face becoming visible as she removes her helmet—not that it’s in any state to be worn. It’s completely dented on one side, and is doing little but obstructing her vision at this point. Brown eyes narrow in irritation as she reloads her shotgun.

“Knight Garcia—” Arthur starts, but that’s as far as he gets before thirty-some synths are on them, their laser pistols firing, and just like that, it begins. The acrid scent of ozone from the Institute’s modified guns fills the air, washing over the streets like a fog of lightning-scented smoke. In the distance, he can hear gunfire too, the Institute’s forces attacking all at once in an attempt to catch them off guard.

Between the sounds of his own soldiers firing their weapons, and the hissing whir of laser pistols and rifles, it’s difficult to make sense of any of it. He’s distantly aware of his men falling by his side even as he shreds five synths to scrap metal with the _Final Judgement_ , glowing holes in their chests from the synth’s weapons. Ashely stands in the middle of it all, having abandoned her shotgun for a laser rifle she had picked up off of a fallen synth, though she ignores that too when a synth gets too close, and decides to simply strike it across the face with her gloved hand. Its head is sent skittering across the pavement, wires sparking.

His radio crackles again, barely audible over the sound of gunfire, and the transmission cutting in and out. “ _Victor One, this… Icicle Ten-One … Bravo Team… reached Relay… Rendezvous… my coordinates for… ex… traction… sending navpoint, over._ ”

_Eleanor._

He’d had his doubts about her little fireteam succeeding, but it seems his doubts had been in vain. On his comms device, a set of coordinates flash on the screen, not too far from his current location.  “I’ll get on your case about Prime later,” Ashley snarls, dragging him aside to narrowly avoid being shot at by a Courser armed with a laser rifle. “But you’ve got places to be, so scram!”

“Ashley—”

“Don’t fucking agree with this Prime idea still, but I’ll make sure it gets to the Institute in one piece,” she snaps at him before he can finish. “Now get going! Chrissakes, man!”

He doesn’t argue with her. There isn’t any point. Instead, he hoists _Final Judgement_ higher up, tightening his grip. Then, he nods, and starts towards the navpoint Eleanor had sent him. He can’t tell if they’re winning. The vertibirds overhead do what they can to thin out the crowd from above, but the Institute has them beat when it comes to numbers. His men are far more skilled than a synth, but for every soldier, there are five synths who continue to fight until they’re nothing more than pieces of scrap on the ground. One swings at his head with an arm, having lost its weapon as well as its other arm, but Arthur ducks to avoid it, grabbing his knife, and plunging it into the base of its neck. He severs the connections between the computer that functions as the Gen 1’s brain and the rest of its body, kicking the body aside to continue running as fast as he can towards the General.

He finds at the centre of an intersection, 10mm in hand. She almost puts a bullet between his eyes as he runs towards her. “Fucking hell,” she swears, turning to look at him. Blood is smeared across her face, but he can’t tell if it’s hers or someone else’s. Garvey is by her side, a circular hole through his hat as though it had been shot off his head. “I didn’t know if I got through. You didn’t respond.”

“Consider your message received, General,” he says as she pulls both him and Garvey across the street, ducking into an abandoned store. She grimaces as a synth narrowly misses them, leaving behind a glowing sear in the door. “How’s it going here?”

“It’s been shit,” she says. “Few casualties so far—one dead, and I’ve requested medevac for five, but everything else has been minor. But we’re not making any progress. Is Prime in place?”

“Not yet,” Arthur says. “Ashley’s taken command in my stead.”

“I didn’t realise she was that high in the chain of command,” says Garvey.

“She isn’t, but have you tried saying no to her?”

Despite their dire situation, Eleanor snorts with amusement. “If the Minutemen and the Brotherhood keep the Institute engaged out here, we’ll be able to get into the Institute with minimal resistance,” she says. “Danse, Hancock, and Valentine are holding at the Relay control centre, but I don’t know how long they’ll remain in control.”

“I’ll stay,” Garvey says.

“Preston—”

“With all due respect, General, they need a leader out here, and you’re needed there. We don’t have much of a choice.”

Her gaze softens. “This is your fight too. You should be with us for this.”

“I may have fought in it, General,” he says, “but this has been your fight all along, and if this is farewell…” He removes his hat, holding it to his chest. “It’s been an honour to serve alongside you.”

“It’s not farewell, and put your hat back on. You look weird without it,” she reprimands, Garvey laughing in response. “Good luck, Lieutenant General.”

“And the same to you, General,” he says. His gaze flits over to settle on Arthur. “What is it you guys say? Ad victoriam?”

“Ad victoriam,” Arthur says, his stomach twisting as Eleanor begins to fiddle with the dials on her Pip-Boy, contacting Danse for extraction, and with a flash of blue light so light he sees spots, they disappear.


	57. Chapter Fifty Seven

The Institute is as sterile, and as unwelcoming as he had expected it to be. All white walls, and florescent lights, it looks more like a doctor’s office rather than a place that might have once been the hope for mankind. It’s such as impersonal, just as clinical as the Institute itself is, and Arthur thinks that it’s no surprise the Institute now see the Wastelanders as little more than test subjects. This place is so perfect and symmetrical that it’s almost unnerving.

Admittedly, there are a few scorch marks on the wall, but he has a sneaking suspicion that it’s from the laser rifle Danse is holding rather than anything else. The former Paladin seems to have found himself another set of power armour since he had left the Brotherhood, and Arthur almost finds himself envious. He’s made some minor adjustments to it, and it’s a little beat up, but Arthur would be lying if he said he didn’t want a suit of X-01 power armour for himself.

“Who else we bringin’ in?” Hancock asks without looking up from the console. When no response comes, he quirks a hairless brow beneath the brim of his tricorn hat. “Bristles.”

“I was thinking,” Arthur says a little too sharply. He had grown up on the battlefield, and is more accustomed to violence than an almost-twenty-five year old should be. And yet, he can still see images of his men lying alongside broken synths when he closes his eyes. And yet, he can still hear the clicking and clacking of metal against pavement, and Prime’s propaganda.

He has been a part of many a war, but this is the first war that has truly been _his_. He had started this. And he has to finish this.

“Think a little faster, then,” Hancock shoots back, just as sharp. His face contorts then as though in agony, and it is then that he notices that Hancock’s red coat is a little redder than usual and clings to the outline of his wiry form, and the small puddle of crimson smeared on the floor. He grunts, leaning against console for support.

Eleanor rushes over to him before he collapses, catching him in her arms, and gently laying him on the floor. “John!”

Weakly, the Ghoul smiles. “Hey, Sunshine,” he says through gritted teeth, tears pricking at his obsidian eyes as she pulls his coat and shirt back to expose his wound. “Don’t you worry about me now. Nothin’ I haven’t survived before. Just a Courser with a fucking revolver, and we’ve killed Coursers, haven’t we?”

“Knew it was worse than you were saying,” Danse mutters quietly.

Hancock manages a laugh, but it’s just as weak as his smile. “Ain’t gonna admit that I’m hurt to you, Crew Cut. Too proud for that shit, ‘sides, you should’ve noticed the blood on the floor.”

Eleanor gives him a light, but stern smack on the shoulder. “Stay still,” she chastises, rummaging around in her pockets for a stimpak, but coming up empty handed. “And stop talking like you’re going to die.”

“Might die, Sunshine,” he says, closing his eyes. His hat falls off his head as he leans backwards, exposing a large expanse of scarred skin. “Shit like that happens sometime. Can’t say I didn’t give it my all, and I’d be happy to die helpin’ you out one last time.”

She’s hardly listening to him, one hand pressed hard over his wound to staunch the blood, and checking every pocket she has twice, and then once more for a stimpak as though one will miraculously appear out of thin air. The wound’s not all that bad. It’s clean, and the bullet still seems to be in him—they’ll have to get it out before he can start healing, but it means less tissue damage as long as he stays still, and it’s keeping a majority of the blood in. Without assistance though…

Arthur finds himself kneeling by Hancock’s side, digging his fingers into the ghoul’s wound. He writhes and groans in pain, but Eleanor pins him down with a strength he didn’t know she had, keeping him mostly still until Arthur manages to pull the bullet out of his wound. He keeps pressure on his wound, pulling a stimpak out of his pocket, and removing the cap on the needle with his teeth, before plunging the syringe into the Ghoul’s abdomen, an inch left of the wound.

“Can’t call me Bristles now that I’ve saved your life, or else I won’t be saving it again, is that clear?” Arthur says as Eleanor takes the flag Hancock uses it for a belt, tearing off a strip to use as a bandage.

Hancock grins from ear to ear. “Don’t plan on getting shot like this again, Bristles.”

He knows that he’s important to Eleanor, but sometimes he _really_ wants to punch him. It’s only for her sake that he doesn’t. “Whatever, freak.”

He chortles as Nick and Danse help him up to his feet, and he takes up his place on the console, still leaning against it for support. Arthur’s hands are covered in his blood, and lamely, Eleanor offers up another piece of Hancock’s flag to help clean his hands, much to the Ghoul’s irritation. “Anyone wanna take over while Bristles figures out who he’s—” she starts.

“Don’t make me regret giving you that stimpak,” Arthur says, the small smile upon his lips the only indication that he’s not serious, but even if he was, he’d not say such a thing. Especially not around Eleanor. She’s white as a sheet, forehead damp with nervous sweat, and looks just about ready to kill Hancock for being so foolish. “I’ll take over. It’s fine, Hancock. You…” He looks to Eleanor, uncertain of what to say. “You take it easy.”

Eleanor helps him over to a corner where she props him up against the wall, the Ghoul still grimacing with every movement he makes even as the stimpak numbs his nerves as it accelerates the healing process. “You pull this shit again,” she says, “and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Hancock laughs quietly. “That’s my Sunshine.”

“I’ll watch the door,” Valentine mutters, the synth grabbing his pipe revolver pistol from the console, and shuffling a few feet away.

Hesitantly, Danse comes up beside him, countenance fraught with concern. Even if he isn’t particularly close with Hancock, they all care about Eleanor far more than they care about themselves, and if Hancock’s important to her, then he’s important to them all, if only for her sake. “Maxson.”

“Danse,” he returns, equally curt, eyes on the screen before him as he attempts to figure out the commands. He prays that the men he’d selected to Relay in hadn’t got caught in the battle yet, else this will be a rather difficult attempt to properly encircle the Institute. By now, Prime should be at the ruins of the CIT, prepared to blow a hole right into BioScience, while the Railroad and Minutemen cover the flanks. Arthur lets out a sigh. “James.”

Slowly, James blinks. “Arthur.”

“Stellar conversation,” Nick interrupts from the door. “Literary masterpiece.”

Danse flushes, ducking his head, and avoids looking Arthur in the eyes.

“I want to apologise,” Arthur starts.

“That’s hardly necessary, sir.”

“I’m not your CO, James. Not anymore. And I think we were always brothers before we were soldiers, no?” Arthur says, finally figuring out the Relay console, and starting to input the IDs of the people he needs to teleport in. “I ignored that when… what went down occurred.”

“I don’t blame you,” James says quietly. “I was the enemy. I _am_ the enemy.”

“No,” he says, looking James in the eyes. “You’re my brother, and… And we’d like you to be the godfather of our child.”

Behind James, Eleanor freezes, overhearing Arthur’s words, and pretends to adjust Hancock’s bandages in an attempt to appear busy.

“While I’d love to accept, s—er, Arthur, I hardly think that that would be appropriate,” James says, shuffling his feet as best he can in his power armour. “I imagine the Council will insist that you raise your child in territory fully controlled by the Brotherhood, and I can’t imagine that my presence would be… tolerated.”

“It would be if you were a Minutemen delegate,” he says softly. “You’d have diplomatic immunity, and would only answer to the Minutemen’s authority. You might have to play nanny from time to time as part of your ‘duties’ as ambassador, but… The Brotherhood was your life, and I hope it still will be, even if it’s not quite the same.”

“I will…” James looks nervous, but he can’t hide the gratefulness in his warm eyes. “I will consider the offer.”

“There’ll always be a spot for you in the Brotherhood,” Arthur says with a faint smile before finally pressing enter on the console’s keyboard. One by one, the names he had inputted light up green, and he flips the switch. He squints against the bright white-blue light as people materialize in the Relay room.

Ingram is the happiest he’s seen her in a long while, her eyes bright and starry even if her lips are pursed as they always are. Red hair falls across her eyes as she tilts her chin up. “Elder.”

“Proctor,” he says. “Welcome back to field duty.”

She almost can’t contain her smile. “Thank you, sir.”

The entire Institute shakes then, alarms blazing as BioScience is breached with a great big blast of energy, and even from the Relay control centre, he can hear the sound of gunfire, and the screams of the dying. Eleanor’s face twists, and she avoids looking at anyone in particular.

 “Anyone who wants to surrender will be allowed to do so,” she says, voice quiet, but managing to ring out over the chaos. “If they want to leave, take their weapons, and transport them to the Castle. It should be far enough away from the fighting. They’re under no obligation to stay with the Minutemen, mind you, but if we can avoid unnecessary bloodshed, we are obligated to try. Synths, humans, I don’t care. This fight isn’t about them. It’s about the Institute’s leadership, and we cannot punish everyone for the mistakes of a few. Use as little force as necessary, and try your damndest to ensure that children don’t see the violence. Nick, Hancock, you two stay here and manage the Relay room. Ingram, you’re in charge of placing the detonator on the reactor. We need to blow this place sky-high when we’re done. Danse, you’ll accompany her.”

A few Brotherhood soldiers mutter their protests, but one sharp glare from Eleanor has them lapsing into silence.

“You all have your orders. Now get going,” she says, Ingram, Danse, and their squad heading towards the Institute’s tunnels, following the map Eleanor had stolen when she’d been here last. Immediately, Eleanor turns to a locked side door, fiddling with the terminal to the next of it.

“You sure you’re prepared to do this?” Arthur asks.

She looks him in the eyes as she manages to program the door to release. “No,” she says, and starts down the hallway, leaving him to follow. The hallway soon turns into a tunnel suspended fifty feet up in the air, its walls made of clear plastic. From this height, he can see the fighting below. Power armour stands out dark, and steely against the sterile, white walls of the Institute, and Eleanor doesn’t look down.

He’s counting the dead—trying to remember their names—as she leads him through the maze that is the Institute, her hands in fists by her side. It’s strangely quiet up here, the entire sector on what was meant to be an impenetrable lockdown, but they can’t seem to keep Eleanor out. Locked terminals become unlocked with a few things inputted into the console, and even deadbolted doors seem to slide open for her.

He had compared her once to a warrior angel—beautiful and terrible, angry and sad, all at the same time. For almost two years, this has been her fight, but now, she still has a full mag, and the only blood on her hands is from Hancock, not someone she had killed. This isn’t about winning. Not anymore. This is about putting an end to it all, and all she cares about now is seeing it through, and avoiding any more senseless slaughter.

And then the hallway ends, and they’re standing before a sliding door, and he knows that this is it, and he knows that this is the end.

 _And_ —

And it’s all come down to this.

“Do you need to be alone?” A foolish question, and one she will not give him a proper answer to. The answer is, undoubtedly, yes, but not right now. They are alone in her son’s sanctuary, as though this is a church where he has taken refuge.

But no claim to sanctuary will protect him now.

Eleanor places a hand on the door, but does not force it open. Instead, she leans against the cool surface, forehead pressed to the glistening ceramic coated metal, her eyes scrunched tight. “And every dead king had a story,” she says in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, but the starry dark had tints of gold.”

He does not ask. It isn’t his place.

But she supplies an answer to the question he had not asked anyway. “Nate used to love that poem,” she says. “I never understood why.”

“Eleanor,” he starts, but she shakes her head, and he falls silent.

She wipes at her eyes, catching her tears before they can fall, and turns to look at him. “Let’s get this over with,” she says, and the door hisses open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST (also fuck it, I'm uploading all of the final chapters right now because it's 4am and I have to be up for 8:30/9-ish.) Also I love how everyone's like, "Hancock, you could die!" And Hancock's response is just: "It be like that sometimes ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯" The poem Eleanor references is The Dead Kings by Francis Ledwidge. You can read it here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57373/the-dead-kings


	58. Chapter Fifty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo boy, this one's a doozy.

When Arthur had last had met Shaun, proud would have been an apt description for the leader of the Institute. He had stood, hands behind his back, in a lab coat as white as his hair, like an inverse silhouette of white against the dusky twilight sky. And his eyes, not quite Eleanor’s colour but just as piercing, had settled on him, and he had been unable to hide his distaste.

_“So I see this is my father’s replacement.”_

But Shaun now does not stand proud—does not stand at all, in fact. He is confined to his bed, taking in air through a nasal cannula. He barely has the strength to lift his head even as his back is supported by several pillows. A weak laugh bubbles from his lips, and he manages to turn his head just enough to avoid looking his mother in her eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, Mother,” Shaun says, the tremor in his voice from suppressed tears unmistakable. “But you’re not one to walk away from a fight before it’s over, are you?” He closes his eyes, a rattling breath hissing out through his teeth. “We were so close. To preservation. To purification. To… perfection. You could have been a part of that. We could have been… happy.” He doesn’t look over at him, but Arthur knows that his next words are directed at him. “Your people do not understand that there is more to living than just surviving. All this senseless war and bloodshed, and for what? To live another day in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, with no thought for your descendants? How much are caps worth when you could cure all diseases? Stop aging?”

“None of that is worth anything if you create your cures by stealing children away from their family in the dead of night, just so you can use them as test subjects,” Arthur says.

“What’s one life, what’s a hundred lives, when you could save millions?” Shaun returns. “Progress demands sacrifice. You should know that. You are a creature bred and born of war.” He shifts his head back, and now finally looks his mother in her heartbroken eyes. “What do you think your child will grow up to become? Will your second be less of a failure than your first?”

“You’re not a disappointment, Shaun,” Eleanor somehow manages to get out, her voice choked up and tight. “We could have been happy. If only we’d had a little more time.”

“Time,” Shaun repeats, closing his eyes. “There’s never enough time. Not for people like us. I’ve lived a long life. Practically an eternity by a Wastelander’s standard, and yet… I find myself unsatisfied. Perhaps it is because I’ve spent my entire life working to make the Institute into humanity’s best hope for the future, and here you stand. My mother, destroying everything I have ever created.”

Even at the end of the line, they still have so much they have to say for each other, desperately trying to catch up for sixty years of absence in a matter of minutes. It would take them an eternity to say everything that they need to say, but they don’t have an eternity. They probably don’t even have an hour.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” Eleanor says, and he knows that she means it. She doesn’t hate her son. She never has, and this has never been about seeing her son pay for the suffering he has caused. He is little more than a stranger to her, but she is still his mother, and he, her son.

And no mother should ever have to kill her son.

“I’d say you could walk away, but it’s a bit late for that now. Even if you could, where would you go? Is there even a single peaceful place last in this desolate wasteland?”

“Oh, Shaun,” she says softly. “There’s a world full of wonder out there that you couldn’t even begin to dream of.”

His shoulders sag. “I would have liked to have seen it. With you, perhaps. Alas, it was not meant to be.” He’s resentful, and bitter, and more than a little angry, but there’s a wistfulness there too. He knows he had missed out on his childhood just as much as Eleanor had missed out on being a mother, but the cards fate had dealt them had been dealt two centuries ago, and they can’t do anything now. “But you don’t have to do this.”

“It has to be done,” says Arthur. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” he returns. “Are you sorry? You can’t be that sorry, if you’re here going through with it. Is it not enough that I lay here dying? Must you take everything else too?”

He’s dying? No one had told him, but by the twist of Eleanor’s visage, she’s known that fact for a long time. Is that how she has justified killing him? A final act of mercy, sparing him from whatever suffering his affliction will force him to endure?

It doesn’t change anything, but a small part of him wishes that it had.

“The Commonwealth deserves to determine its own fate,” Eleanor replies, equally quiet. “No more shadowing organisations pulling things from the shadows. No more secrets. No more hiding. Accountability, and leaders who protect the people not because they want to, not because it’s their duty, but because it’s the right thing to do— _that_ is what the Commonwealth needs.”

“You’ve walked with them for not even two years,” Shaun says. “You don’t know what they’re like.”

“Do you?”

He laughs, and it’s humourless and bitter. “I’m starting to think that, perhaps, I should have left you in the Vault.”

“Perhaps you should have,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat, “but it’s too late now.”

He huffs, considering the future that might have been if he had not indulged his curiosity and freed his mother. Would the Institute be victorious by now? Would the Brotherhood be nothing but a stain on the Commonwealth, its memory swept under the rug by the Institute? History, as they said, is written by the victors, and without Eleanor, they’d have lost a long time ago.

“Why are you here, Mother?” he asks after a long moment of silence, interrupted only by the staccato of gunfire outside. “Is it to gloat? To show off that you now have a chance at a future you never had with me, and my father? But did it have to be with him, of all people? The zealot. The soldier. The child playing at war with forces he does not understand.”

Eleanor sinks onto the edge of his bed, reaching for his hand even as he pulls them back away from her. She reaches for them again a second later, eyes on his, and this time, he doesn’t fight her. He looks like a ragdoll, being propped up by nothing but pillows and sheer force of will. “The Brotherhood is going to blow this place into the sky,” she whispers. “Countless innocents will die if we don’t get them out in time. I can’t let that happen.”

“You already have enough blood on your hands, Mother. What’s a little more?”

“That’s not the point. This isn’t about me. People will die unless we help them. They had no part in this. The children especially. They were born into this world. They did not create it. Help us. Please.”

Shaun closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillows, his hands still in his mother’s grasp. “The terminal to issue an evacuation alert is on my desk. It should be unlocked, but know that I am not doing this to help you. If any of them can survive… if any part of the Institute can live on… I must save them.”

Eleanor looks back at Arthur for a brief moment before looking back to Shaun. “You could come with us,” she says. “Steal the last little bit of time we have left.”

“No,” says Shaun. “We are both out of time, in two different senses of that phrase. You, finding yourself two centuries in the future, and me, with the last grains of sand in my hourglass slipping away. I will die here, surrounded by my legacy. Let the crater you leave behind be my tombstone, forever marking where my empire once stood.” His face twists then, and behind him, a vital monitor on the wall starts to beep.

Her grip tightens on her son’s hands. “Are you in pain?”

“I’m dying, Mother,” he points out quietly. “Killed by the very thing I had spent decades trying to cure. But that will end soon enough, won’t it? All thanks to you.”

“We can make it easier,” Arthur says. “You don’t have to die in pain.”

And Shaun laughs again, incredulous, and unable to believe the words coming from the Elder’s mouth. “I do not want your pity, Maxson. Or your sympathy, for that matter. If my pain causes you discomfort, then let it, and remember years from now that you killed a dying, old man who had only ever done what he had thought was best.”

“But that doesn’t make what you did right,” Eleanor says, echoing the words she had said to Desdemona what feels like an age ago. “We do terrible, violent things when we are desperate, but desperation is not an excuse. We cannot look at the chaos and the bloodshed we have caused, and blame it on desperation. People like us… We have to admit that we were wrong, or the nation never grows.”

Shaun grimaces again, vitals spiking for a second before settling back down. “I am unconscious of intentional error,” he says. “I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors.”

Eleanor chokes on the sob in her throat, but she cannot hide the pride in her eyes. “And may the faults of incompetent abilities be consigned to oblivion, as you must soon be to the mansions of rest.”

And Shaun… Shaun smiles. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “To finally rest?” He pulls his hands out of his mother’s then before she can refuse to leave. “Now go. Issue the evac order. It’ll shut down the synths. Save everyone you can.”

“Shaun—”

“No,” he says, refusing to look at his mother. “There’s nothing more to say.”

It’s like her feet are made of lead, but she somehow manages to force herself away from the bedside of her dying son without so much as a farewell. Her eyes are bloodshot with unshed tears, but nothing falls, and she issues the evac order as fast as she can.

She almost runs out of her son’s quarters, and the instant she is out of Shaun’s earshot, she falls to the ground, breath hitching in her throat as she sobs. She has a hand over her mouth to stifle the cries, the other wrapped around her abdomen to keep her from rocking where she kneels on the ground, but none of it helps. She’s shaking like a leaf, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Arthur hushes her, pulling her into his chest like there isn’t a war raging outside. Right here, right now, she’s the only thing that exists. “I know,” he says, even if he doesn’t. He can’t know the pain she’s going through. He does not know the grief of a mother who has lost her child, does not know what it is like to spend two years searching for your son in an unfamiliar landscape, only to find him and have him not be what you had expected. But it’s what she needs to hear. “I know.”

“I thought I could hate him,” she weeps into his shoulder. “I thought I could pretend that he was just another Raider I had killed without giving a second thought to. But I can’t. I can’t. He’s a monster, but he’s my son, and I’m leaving him to die. How can I be a mother when I killed my first child? How can I lead when I’m no better than the evil I fight against?”

“You’re not evil,” he whispers. “You’re not. You’re good. You’re so good. You’ve done all that you could for so long, and it’s a miracle you’ve come this far. This is both the easiest, and the hardest part now. All you have to do is walk away, No more fighting. No more sacrifices. But you also have to say goodbye.”

“I can’t say goodbye. Even after everything, he’s still myself.”

“I know. You don’t have to say goodbye now. Not to him. What you have to do is let go. You have to say goodbye to the future you thought you wanted. All we’re doing is letting go. You’ve been fighting for so long, Ellie. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

And those final six words do her in.

 _You don’t have to fight anymore_.

She picks herself back up to her feet, arms wrapped around herself, and when he goes to help her, she shakes her head, and insists that she can walk on her own. Her hair has started to slip out of its tie, falling around her face in a halo of frizzy, golden strands as they make their way back to the Relay control room. The fighting has quieted down now, the Brotherhood and the Minutemen meeting little resistance with most of the synths having been shut down, and by the time their eyes fall upon Hancock and Valentine, they’re ushering the last of the fleeing Institute scientists through the Relay.

“We were waitin’ on you,” Hancock says, still weak from the wound in his abdomen, though the stimpak had done wonders, and there’s a little more colour in his cheeks than there had been when they’d left. “Igram and Danse have set the charge. Garvey and the others are waiting at the Mass Fusion building. Something about watching the fireworks.”

“Then let’s get going,” Eleanor says quickly, starting towards the Relay.

“I know you probably want to get out of here, but…” Nick shifts his weight from one skeletal foot to the other. “You holding up alright? You’ve been through a lot.”

She doesn’t answer him, not directly. “I’m so sick and tired of losing people,” she whispers, closing her eyes. “When will it end? How much longer will this go on? I look in the mirror, and I no longer recognise the woman staring back out at me. One death, a hundred, a thousand—to her, it’s all the same.”

Nick looks like he wants to reach out for her, but lingers back, looking down at the exposed metal skeleton of his hand. Artificial eyes focus on the ground, thin lips of artificial skin pursing together.

“But this was never about me,” she says after a moment’s pause. “This was never about me. This was about what was best for the rest of the world, because if I could help, it was my duty to. People in power refusing to care about those that weren’t in power is what led to the world ending last time, and I didn’t come two hundred years to watch the world end again. In the end, does it even matter? What’s a single life when you’re already standing in an ocean of blood?”

“Everything.” It’s Hancock that speaks, his low, quiet rasp almost as loud as a shout in the silence. “It’s everything. It’s what makes you different from the people you fight against. The value you put on a life is what makes you human.”

Her face twists in pain, and he knows that she’s on the verge of tears again, but she doesn’t reply. Instead, she forces herself to walk into the Relay room, hands in fists by her side. “We should go before this place goes.”

“El—” starts Hancock, but when Valentine shakes his head, he falls quiet. Not now. Not today. Today, she’s leaving the son she had spent every waking hour trying to find to die. Even if he’s dying already, it doesn’t change the fact that his death will be a direct result of her actions, rather than the affliction ravaging his body.

Even if she’s saving the people, she is still condemning her child. He had said once that she is merciful, but she is not kind. That, he now realises, isn’t always true. She can be kind, without having always to do kind things. At her soul, though, she is just a woman who had lost too much to a cruel, unfair world. She may be the woman who had built the Commonwealth from the ground up, may be the one whose very name will make most if not all lay down their weapons without a fight, but she is still just a young mother who had lost the life she’d known, then her husband, and then her son.

What has the world not taken from her? Her life?

He knows she would gladly lay that down too if it would protect another.

The Relay whirs, clockworks and gears spinning as Arthur steps in alongside Eleanor, solemn and silent which only serves to make the Relay seem that much louder. His eyes meet Hancock’s across the way, and when he blinks, all he sees is blinding light, and his surroundings disappear around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The speech Eleanor/Shaun reference is Washington's Farewell Address (which is also a subtle nod to Hamilton because I am w e a k and we all know that I've played around with a lot of Eleanor/famous historical figures from American history parallels.)


	59. Chapter Fifty Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST FORMAL CHAPTER BEFORE THE EPILOGUE, LET'S GO BOYS.

The wind’s whistling as it sweeps through the crumbling ruins of Boston, and it’s the only sound that breaks the silence. Sometime, when they had been underground, day had turned to night, and the cool, biting chill of March sinking into his bones. On the horizon, Arthur sees green far too warm to be the result of anything nuclear. _Grass. It’s grass._ Slowly, the Commonwealth is regaining touches of life. It had taken over two hundred years, but life finds a way, undeterred by even a nuclear war that had almost destroyed humanity.

It’s early for things to be budding, Arthur thinks. A moment later, he realises that he’d been too swept up in the war to pay attention to the date. It’s the first day of spring—the beginning of a new season that will bring life back to the Wasteland. He had thought today was too good of a day for people to die, but perhaps this is the best day they could have done this. It’s the first day of spring, and the dawn of a new age.

“Ingram assures us that this is a safe distance from the blast radius. She’d have been here, but she said she needed to make certain Liberty Prime got back to the airport in one piece.” Garvey breaks the silence, his gaze settling on his general. Eleanor’s paler than should be healthy, and a part of Arthur fears that it’s her health, but the sensible part of him knows better. Her quest for revenge had been the sole thing keeping her together for the past two years, and today, she writes the ending to that chapter of her life. What happens next? Where do they go from here?

Questions neither she nor Arthur has answers to.

People always talk about a big red button being the thing to press when setting off a bomb, but Arthur had always thought it as nothing more than an oversimplification of what he had thought would be a complicated process. The Minutemen, however, had taken it a little more literally than that, and sure enough, a big red button sits on a pedestal before Eleanor, just waiting for her to press it and wipe the Institute from the face of the Wasteland.

Garvey catches Arthur looking at the button, and purses his lips, standing a little straight. “General, whenever you wanna see ‘humanity’s best hope for the future’ go up in smoke, just hit that button.”

“You don’t have to sound so derisive, Preston,” Eleanor says quietly. “There’s no way we managed to evacuate everyone. I press that, and God knows how many more innocents’ lives will be on my hands.”

Her lieutenant flushes in shame. The thought had escaped his mind, clearly. It hadn’t escaped Arthur’s. She hadn’t killed Shaun herself—hadn’t looked him between the eyes and pulled the trigger, hadn’t cut off his life support—but this? Blowing the Institute to an irradiated pile of rubble? This will kill him. It’s less personal, doesn’t ask her to watch her son die before her eyes, but she’ll still be killing him. There’s no going back from this. “My apologies, General.”

Eleanor doesn’t even wave him off, his apology falling on deaf ears. Her gaze is distant and far off, like she’s caught up in her memories of her life pre-War. This is what had happened during the War, isn’t it? Somebody in power had looked out over the world, and had decided that detonating the bombs would have been better than enduring the war that had been raging for years for another day. It’s the end of the world all over again.

She swallows hard, looking down at the button before her, and Arthur reaches out for her shoulder. She sinks into his touch, tension not quite fully dissolving, but it alleviates enough for a flicker of hope to pass through her green eyes. These are dark days, but tomorrow is a new day, and the Commonwealth will officially be able to decide its own fate. Even now, they’ve made progress. The General of the Minutemen, the leader of the Railroad, and the last Maxson Elder stand, looking out over the land they’ve saved, ready to secure their victory. Two years ago— _Hell, even eight months ago_ —Arthur would have thought this an impossible scenario.

But here they are.

Then Eleanor lifts her head, and presses the button.

For one, long moment, nothing happens. The night is still dark, lit up only by the distant glow of campfires, and Diamond City’s blinding stadium lights. Then, the horizon starts to glow, washed in a brilliant, azure light that’s so bright he has to squint just to look at it. It swells, growing and growing, until in a climax of white light, an explosion rattles the entire world, accompanied by a deafening boom. Roiling clouds of fire curl up into the night sky, so bright it blocks out the stars, sending a wave of black smoke out over the ground. He can feel it wash over him; heat, radiation, the echo of the force that had removed something from the world forever.

Arthur blinks once, twice, thrice, the image of the explosion seared into his retinas, and then, just like that, it’s over. The war is done, ended, and all that remains of the Institute is a scorching crater that slowly starts to fill with water from the river.

And they all collectively let out a breath, one great sigh escaping them as they all realise that it’s done. The Wasteland’s largest bogeyman is gone, wiped from the face of the earth, never to return, and they’re safe. There’s no going back. They’ve changed the world, and it will take time for them to know if it was for better, or for worse.

Eleanor leans against the railing, her hands clasped as she watches the explosion slowly fade away, leaving behind nothing but fires that will soon burn out.

“Well… Shit,” Deacon says, expressing what they’re all thinking. He removes his mirrored sunglasses only to look closer at the aftermath of the reactor blowing.

Garvey manages a weak laugh. “That was one hell of a bang, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t think ‘bang’ is enough to describe that, Garvey, but shit, it sure was.”

He snorts, amused, before looking to the General, removing his hat, and holding it close to his chest. “So that’s it. The institute is destroyed. It’s finally over.”

“It’s not over,” Arthur says softly, hand still resting on Eleanor’s shoulder as he, like her, looks out over the ruins of Boston with a heavy heart. “Our work is far from finished. But yes, it’s over. It’s time we close this chapter on the Commonwealth, and begin one anew. It will take time to recover, and we still have to tend to our injured and count our dead.”

“Christ, Maxson, lighten up a bit,” Deacon mutters. “This is still a victory. Don’t need you souring it.”

“Victory,” Eleanor repeats, so quiet he barely hears her. She hums to herself, thinking for a moment. “Victoria.”

Arthur furrows his brow, confused. “Victoria?”

“It’s a nice name,” she murmurs, “for our daughter.” They all fall into silence again, and somehow, they’re quieter than they had been waiting for the reactor to blow. No one knows what to say. Even Deacon is at a loss for words, no doubt wanting to make some sort of light-hearted remark but having enough common sense to bite his tongue. Eleanor looks at Arthur for the first time since she had pressed the button. “Victoria Jessica Maxson, in honour of your mother. Don’t you agree?”

He doesn’t even know where to begin. “Daughter?” he croaks, voice shaking.

“Found out by accident,” she says, more to herself than to him. “Cade let it slip. I was going to tell you when this was all over, and well…” She glances back at the smoking crater. “It seems like it’s over alright.”

When Arthur left the Capital, he had never thought that he would fall in love, much less with someone like Eleanor. Brash, crass, and crude, she’s too similar to many of the Wastelanders he looks down upon. But she isn’t a Wastelander. The Wasteland may be her home now, but it wasn’t always, and behind the front she puts up, behind her desperate attempt to be the general the Minutemen need her to be, she’s kind, brave, selfless. She has a terrible sense of humour, and she has no concept of subtlety, but in his eyes, it’s little more than another reason he loves her.

He looks down at his mother’s ring on her hand before meeting her eyes. He had never thought he’d fall in love, but he had, and he wouldn’t trade what they have for anything else in the world.

“Victoria Maxson,” he says again, testing the name on his tongue. It’s fitting for their child who will one day grow up to lead the Brotherhood herself. It’s a reminder of the circumstances under which she had been born as well as a nod to the Brotherhood’s motto. If anyone will lead the Brotherhood to victory, it will be the daughter of a Maxson and the woman who had singlehandedly shaped the Commonwealth’s future. “It’s perfect.”

A small, sad smile passes over Eleanor’s lips. “I thought so too,” she says, closing her eyes as she lets out a sigh.

Deacon coughs. “So, uh, not to interrupt—congratulations, by the way, and I uhhh like the name—but what do we do now?”

“Arthur’s right,” Eleanor says, stepping away from the railing, and turning to look at Garvey and Deacon. “We still have work to do. The synths that escaped need to be resettled, and I imagine the scientists will need somewhere to go too. I’m putting you two in charge of that. We’re not going to be out of a job for a long time yet, but I think… I think I’m going to take a week off.” She glances at Arthur out of the corner of her eye. “ _We’re_ going to take a week off.”

Garvey raises a brow, but the words that come out of his mouth aren’t an objection. “Got someplace you’ve got to be?”


	60. Chapter Sixty [Epilogue]

There are perks to being Elder, Arthur thinks hours later as they stand on the gallery deck of the Kingsport Lighthouse, watching the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. A few of the children residing in the house just behind the lighthouse fawn over the vertibird he had commandeered; poking and prodding at it down below, but up here, it’s peaceful. The waves crash against the rocky shore before pulling back in a quiet whisper only to crash once more. The pale glow of the sun’s first light washes the Commonwealth in swaths of orange and gold, and Eleanor’s hair almost seems to glow in the light. For a moment, it doesn’t matter that they still have work to do. It doesn’t matter that they’ll never fully be able to run away from their names and their titles. Right now, it’s like nothing else exists but each other and the sun rising over the horizon, casting its rays over a seemingly endless ocean.

Eleanor’s hair is undone, let loose from the ties that change her into a soldier with a heart of ice, and she sweeps it over one shoulder almost absentmindedly. All of a sudden, she gasps, and for a brief second, Arthur’s heart stops. Has something happened? Do they have to leave already when they’ve only just arrived?

But then—

“Arthur,” she says, incredulous, and takes his larger hand in her own, pressing it to the swell of her stomach. He frowns, not understanding what she’s doing, but then he feels it. It’s quick and short-lived, and if she hadn’t drawn attention to it, he’s certain he wouldn’t have felt it, but something presses up against his hand, applying pressure for a split second before fading away. “Did you feel that?” she asks a moment later.

Arthur’s eyes meet hers. “Was that…?”

“Our daughter,” she answers, unable to restrain her giddy grin. “She’s kicked before, but you were never close enough for me to get you before she stopped.”

And Arthur looks at her. _Really_ looks at her. For some reason, somehow, it hadn’t felt real until just this moment. Domestic life had never been his style, truth be told. Whenever he had thought of the future, he had thought of a life in the Brotherhood, and perhaps, if he had been lucky, he’d have found a wife, but he had thought the latter unlikely. He hadn’t imagined this—he had imagined the _opposite_ of this. But, somehow, he doesn’t care that it doesn’t meet his expectations. The future he has isn’t one he had imagined, but it’s the only one he wants. Soon, he’ll have a wife, and shortly thereafter, a daughter. A daughter who shares his blood, his name, and whose successes will hopefully surpass his own one day.

As a Maxson, he had always been promised the world. Even from a young age, he had been told that he could do anything, have anything, be anything. Now he knows that he doesn’t want anything. He just wants this. _This_ is enough. _This_ is everything. A quiet morning, watching the sunrise from the gallery deck of a lighthouse the woman he loves had restored with her own two hands, and the silent promise that soon their family will be larger.

Three weeks later, Quinlan officiates their wedding. It’s nothing particularly grand, despite Quinlan’s insistences that the Elder deserves better. They hold it at the Castle, and the Minutemen adorn the space with a few sparse decorations. Eleanor had struggled to find a dress that would fit her, and had almost given up all hope until Cait had shown up out of nowhere, some poor Wastelander tailor in tow and had ordered him to make the General a dress befitting of her station.

The ceremony itself is small too, with Eleanor foregoing a maid of honour for Danse, and bridesmaids for a half-sober Cait and Piper—who had brought Ashley along, of course, without informing anyone beforehand. Arthur exchanges a best man for Ingram, who is one of the few people he knows he can truly call a friend, and who he knows would follow him to hell and back if he asked her to.

And at the reception—which they open up to the public, only because they’ll never hear the end of it if they hadn’t—Hancock offers Arthur his congratulations, and it’s clear the ghoul means it too. He doesn’t use “Bristles” or any other obnoxious nickname he doesn’t have permission to use. He stands straight, and he looks Arthur dead in the eye, flashing him his best, winning smile.

“You be good to her, you hear me?” he says, glancing briefly over at Eleanor as she sips on cherry cola while everyone else around her shares in the wine someone had pulled up from the Minutemen’s cellars. “She’s the best damned thing to happen to any of us. Only one woman I’ve ever truly loved, and she’s it. You hurt her…”

“I know,” Arthur says, watching Eleanor as Cait tipsily fauns over her stomach, cooing over their unborn daughter. “And I won’t. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Maxson.”

Arthur laughs quietly as he looks back at Hancock. “I’d expect nothing less, Hancock.”

On July 17th, 2289, ninety-four days after their wedding, Victoria Jessica Maxson is born. When Eleanor goes into labour, he doesn’t quite believe it at first. She’s been having contractions for several days at that point, and each time, Cade has dismissed her with little more than a wave of his hand, and a reminder to return to him if they think anything’s changed. They dismiss it at the beginning, Eleanor continuing to work through her first contractions, and it’s only in the middle of dinner service when she looks at him with wild eyes, her mouth as dry as cotton balls, does reality sink in.

They don’t have far to go, the med bay just down the hall from Arthur’s room, but getting there is still nerve wracking. He can tell that every step she takes is a struggle, her breath hitching in her throat whenever a particularly bad contraction hits her, and he doesn’t understand how she’s so calm when he’s only maintaining a strong face for her sake. This isn’t her first child, he knows, but the pain she’s already in doesn’t bode well, and when Cade takes her into a back room along with several other nurses, all of whom refuse him entry, his heart beats like a jackhammer in his chest.

For six and a half hours, he sits in the waiting, knotting his hands only knot them again, damning Cade for not letting him into the room. It’s not as though the doctor doesn’t have a good reason. Eleanor’s always had a rather poor resistance to radiation as a result of not being exposed to it in small doses as a child, and he’d ordered her to stay inside for most of the last trimester of her pregnancy, leaving her with a rather weakened immune system as a result. Cade’s looking out for Eleanor, Arthur knows that, but he can’t help the frustration he feels regardless.

“Still in there, is she?” Danse’s voice is quiet, hesitant as he takes a seat alongside Arthur. They’d manage to repair much of their friendship in the months since the Institute’s destruction, but the sort of things they had been through can’t be forgotten in a matter of months. But progress is progress, even if they haven’t made much of it, and slowly, they’re coming to think of each other as brother once again, if only for Eleanor’s sake as well as their own.

Arthur lets out a heavy, shaking breath. “Cade won’t let me see her. Won’t even tell me what’s going on.”

“She’s strong,” Danse says with the confidence of someone who has fought beside Eleanor on more than one occasion. “She’ll pull through. She always does.”

“What if she doesn’t? What if this time—”

“Arthur,” he says sharply, casting a sharp look at his superior officer, but right now, they’re more than just soldiers. They’re nothing more than two people worrying over the woman they care for most in the world. “She’ll be fine. She’d kill someone if she died from childbirth and not from… I don’t know, taking on an unending wave of synths.”

He isn’t wrong, but that doesn’t change how much he’s worrying. It does, however, lighten his mood somewhat. She’s the strongest person either of them knows, and Danse is right. Eleanor is not the type of person to let the end of her story be something as tame as this. She’ll either die of old age or on the battlefield in a blazing fire of glory or she won’t die at all.

Arthur almost jumps out of his chair as Cade emerges from the room. There’s blood on his gloves, and Arthur doesn’t know if that’s a bad sign, but then the doctor smiles. “Let me, for the second time now, be the first to wish you congratulations, sir.”

He almost breaks down into tears of relief. “She’s okay? Eleanor?”

“Both of your girls are,” Cade says, stepping aside, and inclining his head towards the door. “If you wished to see them…?”

He doesn’t give Cade a chance to finish his question before he’s already in the room, stopping dead in his tracks as his eyes fall on Eleanor. She looks exhausted, hair plastered to her sweaty forehead, and the bags under her eyes are an angry purple, but he doesn’t care. None of it matters. She hears him enter the room, and looks up, with a smile on her cracked lips.

“Hey,” is all she manages to say before he’s by her side, staring in awe at the small child she cradles in her arms. Gently, she hooks a finger beneath their daughter’s impossibly tiny hand, making her wave at Arthur before she gently passes her over to her husband. “Say hello to Victoria.”

He doesn’t know how to hold her properly, and he’s terrified that he’s going to drop her but Arthur can’t hold back the tears for a moment longer as their daughter— _Victoria_ —opens her eyes and blearily looks in her father’s direction. He knows she can’t make sense of what she’s seeing, but when her muddy blue-grey eyes meet his, it’s like the entire world stops.

His heart is in his chest as he manages to whisper, “Hello, Victoria. It’s so very nice to finally meet you.”

And then Eleanor’s crying too, the two of them staring at their new-born daughter with his eyes, and a head full of dark, brown-black hair. “She looks like you,” Eleanor says quietly, cradling her against her chest as Arthur lays her back down.

“She has your nose,” Arthur returns, his heart melting as Victoria presses her cheek up against her mother, already falling asleep. “And she’ll be as beautiful as you, I know it.”

Danse coughs from the doorway, not wanting to interrupt their moment, but keen on seeing his goddaughter—Arthur and Eleanor will argue about Danse’s title for another eight weeks until Diederik dares to say in a correspondence meant to wish them congratulations that Danse has no right to be godfather, until all of a sudden, they both agree that Danse absolutely _should_ be the godfather of their firstborn.

Over the next several hours, other visitors trickle in—Ingram, as reserved of a woman she is, can’t stop smiling at her goddaughter, and already she’s competing with Danse to be the better godparent. Piper and Cait are a little less serious, but that’s mostly because Ashley—who seems to follow Piper everywhere—have no idea how to behave around children, and freak out every time Victoria makes even the smallest of noises when they touch her, certain that they’re doing something wrong. Even Hancock visits, and loudly—and without permission, no less—declares himself to be Victoria’s uncle, even as Arthur protests.

And eventually, Cade kicks everyone but Arthur out, and orders everyone to leave the couple alone for the rest of the week.

On Victoria’s first birthday, as Hancock, Ingram, and Danse are setting up the mess hall for the celebration, Eleanor turns to look at Arthur, the toll the sleepless nights have taken on her clearly written across her visage. “Arthur,” she says.

“Hm?”

“I’m pregnant.”

He just stares at her, unable to tell whether or not she’s joking before he realises that she’s serious. “You’re not making Hancock the godfather of this one,” he says after a moment’s pause.

She laughs. “Hancock is _never_ being a godparent, I can promise you that much.”

Arthur runs a hand over his face, already dreading going through all of the political nonsense of having a child with the Minutemen’s General again, but for her, it’ll be worth it. “Diederik will kill us.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Her smile grows larger. “I know.”

With a heavy heart, and much sadness, the Brotherhood decides to return to the Capital Wasteland before Eleanor’s third pregnancy starts to take a toll on her. They fortify the airport, turning it into a new, stable base that operates alongside the Minutemen who are now being led by Garvey. Danse, Ashley, and Piper come with the Brotherhood back to the Capital, Ashley formally enlisting in the Brotherhood as Paladin Garcia. Piper’s insistence that she intended to come with had caused minor complications until the reporter had stood on a table, and announced to the whole Prydwen that she was married to Ashley, and she’d be damned if the Brotherhood forced them to part.

When they had got married, Arthur has no idea, but he knows better than to argue.

Danse’s situation had been a little more complicated. As a synth, he hadn’t been allowed to re-enlist in the Brotherhood, but Eleanor had fought the Council tooth, nail, and claw for him to be allowed to remain as the Minutemen’s ambassador as she set about remaking the Minutemen in the Capital Wasteland—yet another thing the Council took up issues with, but the Elder’s wife was more terrifying than the Elder himself was, and decided to leave the issue alone.

James Edward Maxson is born on April 13th of 2291, just one day after the second anniversary of his parent’s marriage. He’s the opposite of his older sister, with Eleanor’s hair and eyes, and his father’s nose. A little over a year and a half later, he’s followed by his younger sibling, Avalon Vivian Maxson who is a born a few weeks early, but already is just as stubborn as her mother.

After the third Maxson is child— _and last Maxson child,_ as Eleanor reminds him—is born, Diederik steps down as High Elder, Arthur taking up his mantle. Despite her insistence that she’s really quite content, Eleanor is elected to replace Arthur as High Elder of the formerly-Western Chapter. The Council insists that Arthur abandon his family behind to lead the Brotherhood from the Lost Hills Bunker, which has been declining for years at this point, but their demands fall on deaf ears. His family is here, with Eleanor, and Danse—who has somehow now become the children’s nanny as well as godfather and Minutemen Ambassador—and Ingram, and everyone else. The Council are as pleased about his refusal to lead from anywhere _but_ Washington as they are about Danse being Ambassador and Eleanor being an Elder. Which is, to say, not at all.

And truth be told, Arthur couldn’t have given a damn.

For the first time in his life, he can truly say that he’s content. He’s greying at the temples, sure, but so is Eleanor—she doesn’t appreciate being reminded, and he often finds himself in charge of watching the kids when he brings it up—and the Brotherhood and the Minutemen have found themselves as the two strongest powers in the entire Wasteland.

This isn’t the life he had imagined for himself, but it’s the only life he wants, and he wouldn’t change a single thing about it for anything in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I threw a not-so-subtle Star Wars reference in there, and all of the Maxson-Ridley children's names do have relevance, if anyone cares. Victoria Jessica was explained but James Edward is after a) two separate English kings, one being King James the fourth/first and the other being King Edward the first, the latter being the one James' personality is based after, as well as b) being named after Danse. (Arthur pretended to disagree with it, but secretly was all about it.) King James I is relevant in Arthurian legend (which is important seeing as Bethesda WAS NOT SUBTLE WITH THE ARTHURIAN PARALLELS WITH MAXSON). Avalon Vivian meanwhile is named after Avalon from the tale of King Arthur and Vivian being another, alternate name for the Lady of the Lake... Also from Arthurian legend.
> 
> Regardless, this is the end of Untarnished. I'll be writing shorts, don't worry, including a more in-depth look at the Maxson-Ridley wedding, and life with Victoria/James/Avalon. They'll be coming... eventually. I have to actually finish them first. Right now they're just scribbled scenes in my notebook which is already bursting at the seams with Untarnished cut content and scenes that made it into the final edit.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking around for _much_ more than a one-shot. Particular shoutouts to the dedicated commenters who gushed over El and Arthur with me.
> 
> You can always find me here, or on Tumblr at pixelyna.tumblr.com . My art blog's been a little dead lately because of work but you can find it at artpixelyna.tumblr.com (real creative, I know.)
> 
> My Twitter is @kasiapeia_ (which I'm slowly trying to use more.) 
> 
> Thank you all so, so, _so_ much for reading, and sticking around for so long while I went on for far, far, far too long for what was meant to be a one-shot smutfic.
> 
> With much love and gratitude,
> 
> \- Kas


End file.
